


The Hymn of Winter's Champion

by The_Omni_Princess, TheFlailing



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Vikings, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Steve Rogers, Cameos of various Marvel Characters, Deity Bucky Barnes, M/M, Masturbation, Porn With Plot, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Size Kink, Top Bucky Barnes, depictions of fantasy pagan rituals, depictions of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:47:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 46,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27755614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Omni_Princess/pseuds/The_Omni_Princess, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFlailing/pseuds/TheFlailing
Summary: Far in the north, at the edge of the continent, where the bitter winters are long and harsh, and the frigid arctic seas crash against high cliffs and deep fjords, there is a people. Strong and hearty, they are descended from those who were birthed in the time of legends, a millennium ago, far in the distant past when their ancestors farmed the land, fished the waters, and pillaged the seas.Claiming descent from the fabled White Star Clan, this proud people have a song: an ancient hymn whose verses are carved from the words of a long forgotten tongue. None still speak it, and yet each and every man, woman, and child knows the song. On the nights when the moon rises high, this people will gather, whether under starlit or snowing skies, and from their mouths the hymn will rise, a haunting melody with a quick and powerful beat, a song that courses through the soul like a river.If you travel to this place, if you can find this people and hear the ancient hymn, and if you ask them what it means, they will tell you the tale of a legendary chieftain from a golden time of ages past, the Champion of the Winter Lord, Protector of the Land and Bringer of Blessings.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 15
Kudos: 133
Collections: Not Another Stucky Big Bang 2020





	The Hymn of Winter's Champion

**Author's Note:**

> Author's note:  
> PHEW! Wow! I can't believe this is done! This fic started out as a PWP idea floating around in my head a couple years ago, and I'm so excited to have actually put this particular one to paper! What started off as purely an excuse to write filthy porn somehow grew a plot, grew legs, and started running away from me (like many of my fics do, if I'm being honest) and before I knew what was happening, I suddenly had a 45k fic on my hands??? This is the longest fanfic I've written to date, and it's been such a rollercoaster, but boy have I loved every minute of it!  
> Thank you to my collaborator and artist, The_Omni_Princess for claiming my work! It has been a blast to work with you for this project! Thank you so much for your encouragement, for cheering me on, and for being so supportive of my fic! Big Bangs are always a bit nerve wracking since I never know who will end up claiming my fic, and I'm so grateful to have gotten such a lovely and positive partner in crime! I hope everyone enjoys the great art and awesome playlist that The_Omni_Princess has put together!  
> Thanks also the mods of the Not Another Stucky Big Bang 2020 for organizing a great event! For the last few years I've been participating in the Captain America Reverse Big Bang, and I was bummed when the mods decided not to run the event this year, so I was super happy to join this Big Bang for 2020!  
> And finally, thanks to all of the readers who came to this fic! I hope you love reading it as much as I loved writing it for you!  
> TheFlailing
> 
> Artist's note:  
> Hello everyone! I'm Lexi, otherwise known as The_Omni_Princess or TheOmniPrincess depending on the platform. I can't wait to hear what you guys think about this fic and the work Failing and I put into it. Lots of back pain on my end working on things and loud excited screeches about the writing as I got updates over the past few months. This fic immediately caught my eye during claims and I'm so excited I managed to snag it and work on this marvelous fic. I hope you guys all enjoy the fic, the art, and the playlist, and I can't wait to hear all your feelings. I'm on Tumblr and here on Ao3, as well as the discord if you ever want to talk. Enjoy!  
> -Lexi/Omni
> 
> Please find the accompanying playlist for this fic on spotify [here.](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7EZxWa0KIM3MFMzYzubTzU?si=ttOFQ5GvRMu2Zd6JXvU24w) (also linked in the end notes)

Far in the north, at the edge of the continent, where the bitter winters are long and harsh, and the frigid arctic seas crash against high cliffs and deep fjords, there is a people. Strong and hearty, they are descended from those who were birthed in the time of legends, a millennium ago, far in the distant past when their ancestors farmed the land, fished the waters, and pillaged the seas.

Claiming descent from the fabled White Star Clan, this proud people have a song: an ancient hymn whose verses are carved from the words of a long forgotten tongue. None still speak it, and yet each and every man, woman, and child knows the song. On the nights when the moon rises high, this people will gather, whether under starlit or snowing skies, and from their mouths the hymn will rise, a haunting melody with a quick and powerful beat, a song that courses through the soul like a river.

If you travel to this place, tucked away in the corner of the world; if you can survive the journey, and you can find this people; if you are lucky enough to hear the ancient hymn, and if you ask them what it means, they will tell you the tale of a legendary chieftain from golden time of ages past, the Champion of the Winter Lord, Protector of the Land and Bringer of Blessings.

-8-

The deafening roar of cheers and applause swelled around Steve as he drew his bloody sword from Rumlow’s still warm corpse, a wall of sound that assailed his ringing ears. He hated spilling blood, especially so for a kinsman – perhaps that’s why Rumlow refused to submit: to force him to do that which he despised. The duel had been until yield or till death; that was the custom.

Sweat dripped from Steve brow; his hair was plastered to his face and neck and the cloth beneath his armour was glued to his skin. Looking up from the now lifeless body beneath his knees, he was met with the cheering faces of the crowd. The crowed had gathered in a ring surrounding Steve and his now defeated opponent on a small outcropping of land that had been selected for the ritual duel. All manner of people – the farmers, the fishers, the craftsmen, the townspeople, and the warriors – had come to witness the event of a lifetime. Behind the first row of people, Steve could see the tops of people’s heads stretching out in a mass of spectators, each vying to get a glimpse of the fight. In the distance, he could the rooftops of Roophoek, their town, nestled at the base of the tall cliffs which overlooked the ocean.

A light breeze blew inland from the sea, making him shiver; the salty ocean spray was tainted with the coppery tang of blood, staining his nose and teeth with every inhale. Steve’s eyes continued to drift upwards, until his vision was filled with the pale blue winter sky.

He’d done it.

All at once, the adrenaline coursing through his veins turned to ice, and he began to tremble, his body threatening to collapse under a newfound weight.

Suddenly, the cacophony around him hushed, loud voices becoming soft. Looking back down, Steve saw the crowd parting to reveal the hunched figure of Elder Erskine. A small smile was hidden among the wrinkles on the man’s familiar old face, and his eyes shone with pride as he slowly hobbled forward into the makeshift battleground.

“Steven,” said the elder, leaning on his tall staff for support, “through victory in ritual combat, according to our ancient customs, you have won the right to lead and protect our people. As the head of the Council of Elders, I offer you the nomination for Chieftain of the White Star Clan. What say you?”

From his place on his knees, Steve looked up at the man who had taken him in all these years, fostered and nurtured him in a time when he seemed lost, who tempered and rounded his brittle and sharp edges. He had never wanted this; the chieftainship came with so much responsibilities, so many things for which Steve felt ill-equipped and ill-suited to carry. All he had dreamed of doing, since he was small and sick and weak, was to be able to protect his people – to raise his shield and sword in service of those who needed help.

He searched the gathered crowed for familiar faces of his men – the Howlies, they liked to call themselves – and found Morita’s eyes first: hard-set but with a twinkle of triumph. Next was Gabe, his expression filled with excitement and delight; quickly after he spied Dugan and Monty, who gave a small nod of approval, and finally Dernier, who looked proud.

Steve looked back to Erskine. “I accept,” he said.

The elder’s grin broke into a wide smile and raised his voice. “Steven of House Rogers, tonight you will present yourself to our Lord Buchanan upon his altar, and if he approves your choice, you shall be consecrated in the morn the Chieftain of the White Star Clan!”

The decree was met with a second waves of cheers, even greater than the last, and Steve found himself being swept up into the arms of his kin, screaming with joy and congratulations. Lost in the noise and the daze of exhaustion, Steve allowed himself to be carried away by the tide of his countrymen.

-8-

The crate weighed heavy in his arms, and Steve turned to watch as Elder Erskine closed the thick, painted doors behind him. The sight of the pink and lavender sky slowly disappeared from view as the heavy wooden doors slid shut, followed by a heavy thunk as the bolt had been locked into place.

Standing in the darkness, it took a few minutes for Steve’s eyes to adjust. The Sanctuary of the Winter Lord had been built upon the tallest hill in the area. On one side, the building overlooked Steve’s hometown, the largest by population on White Star Clan lands; on the other, the hill overlooked the northern sea.

The customs decreed that a chieftain nominee must perform three acts before the altar on the eve of their consecration. The first act was physical trial and a sign of resolve: the nominee must be sealed inside the sanctuary and lay themselves before the altar, going without food, water, or warmth from sunset to sunrise.

The last rays of warm sunlight pierced the gloom like golden blades striking through the darkness. The Sanctuary was a single long room, lined on either side with tall wooden pillars which help up the ceiling, which reached up to twice Steve’s own height. Inhaling deeply, Steve’s lungs were filled with the earthy scent of the polished wooden floor and walls.

Shifting the crate in his arms, Steve picked up the two overflowing bags that had been set at his feet and stumbled further into the room. It was his first time inside this sacred place, and Steve looked around as he moved forward. Cloth tapestries lined both walls, woven with runes and scenes depicting the tales and deeds of the great Lord Buchanan, god of winter, the midnight moon, and protector of the White Star Clan. A fire pit had been built into the centre of the room, ringed with large stones and piled with firewood. Just beyond it was a raised dais, upon which sat the altar.

Hewn of white marble and carved with runes, the altar was longer than Steve was tall and about as wide as his shoulders. It was empty save for a single statuette at the very center. Steve’s eyes lingered on the idol of Lord Buchanan and his legendary companion, Cana, Mother of Wolves. Carved of the same white marble, it depicted the tall, broad-shouldered god with shoulder length hair, atop which a circlet woven of fine silver and gold threads had been placed. Wearing heavy furs, the figure held in one hand a tall staff, and his other hand rested upon the fur of an enormous wolf, almost the size horse, whose body was curled protectively around Lord Buchanan’s frame.

The second act Steve needed to perform was the presentation of offerings, as a symbol of devotion. Steve set down the wares he was carrying; his offerings numbered many more than he had initially intended to bring. Steve had argued with his brothers-in-arms all afternoon over this.

As he had been gathering his offerings, all of his men had shown up at the door of his cottage, arms laden with all manner of things. The traditions maintained that a chieftain-to-be’s offerings were a reflection of their devotion to the Lord Buchanan, and that these personal offerings would weigh heavily on the judgement passed upon them by their patron god. But none of them would allow Steve to depart without accepting their gifts.

He only held his tongue when Gabe had leaned over and said, “If you are to be judged by your offerings, then let Lord Buchanan see that you have the love and support of his people. The most powerful offering is one which is freely given.”

It was a phrase that his mother always repeated, and Steve couldn’t argue when those words had been said once more, and so the additions had been placed with his own items.

The first of Steve’s offerings was a roll of parchment, tied with a twine string. A painfully expensive thing to acquire, Steve had saved it for years, squirreled away in a corner of his home until he had returned from the ritual duel. Though there was little time to practice his art, Steve had always loved drawing. When he had been sickly and small, he remembered using a stick to make pictures in the dirt. When he discovered charcoal, all manner of surfaces – whether it be the stone fences that lined the roads into town, the walls of his home, or the surface of his battle shield – became a medium for his sketches.

Upon the wrinkled parchment, Steve had drawn a landscape of their town, Roophoek, as viewed from the south road. On the left was the hill upon which the Sanctuary was found, the small building sitting like a crown atop the rocky cliff, overlooking to sea. In the middle, at the base of the hill, was a cluster of buildings. The largest among these was the Great Hall, where people gathered for feasts, celebrations, and for official Clan business. Houses made up the majority of the remaining buildings, with workshops such as the blacksmith’s forge or the weaver’s loom house scattered between them. On the right side of the picture, Steve had drawn the farmland into the foreground. Rolling fields of wheat and grazing pastures stretched from view until it met the rocky shoreline in the distance, where the wharves reached out over the cold sea. Steve had barely enough time that afternoon to add in the small fishing boats to the scene before he was due to meet Elder Erskine.

The second offering was his father’s sword. Steve could not remember Joseph’s face, for his father had fallen in battle when he had been barely three winters old. All Steve had known about the man had been recounted to him by his mother’s tales: stories of a kind, brave, and loving husband and father.

The last offering was his mother’s prayer beads. Threaded onto a thin leather chord that Steve wore around his neck, the string of small wooden beads was a constant comfort to him. Each handmade bead was barely the size of a fingernail, and numbered exactly thirty-two, the number of years his mother had walked the land. Once, when Steve had been young, they had been finely carved with intricate designs – rolling waves, lines with harsh angles, and ruins which spelled names and charms – but over the years, the carvings had been worn down with the constant press of fingers and skin, and the impressions were now faded, and even completely gone on several of the beads.

Of all the offerings he planned to make, this was the hardest for Steve to part with; the mere thought of leaving the familiar smooth wooden beads on the altar caused a lump to form in his throat and his eyes to sting. It was the last thing he owned that belonged to his mother, the woman who had filled his small young heart with joy and wonder. He still remembered sitting at her bedside, just as his tenth winter was waning, desperately trying to deny the sickness that was drowning her as she lay swaddled in bed. He remembered her thin, almost frail looking fingers, clicking between them the wooden beads she had herself carved as her mouth whispered prayers and sang the old hymns to the Winter Lord.

He had been so scared then, and so angry; so much so, that he had even begun to direct it upon the god who seemed deaf to his pleas. It was hard for him to understand why the Lord Buchanan would take his mother away from him, when she had been nothing but good and devout her entire life. He remembered one night, curled up in bed with her beneath the covers, listening to her as she struggled to breath, and confessing his resentment to her.

“You must never forsake Lord Buchanan!” she had scolded him harshly. Her once radiant face, full of warmth of love, had become sallow and pale, the bright shine in her icy blue eyes dimmed by the course of the sickness.

“But why?” Steve had whined, unshed tears prickling the edges of his vision. “You are nothing but good. Every week when Chieftain Alexander’s men come to collect our offerings for the altar, we give what is demanded of us, even if it means skipping supper. Every day we pray and give thanks, and yet Lord Buchanan still does not heal you!”

Sarah had only held him tighter. “You are too young to understand, my love, but I hope that someday you will. There is only so much that our prayers can do. The prosperity of a people reflects the goodness of its leader, and I’m afraid we are all paying for another man’s sins.”

Steve had tried to open his mouth to argue, but his mother had quickly shushed him.

“Promise me, Steve, that you will never turn your back upon the Lord Buchanan! It is from him that our blessings flow. So long as you have faith in him, he will watch over you, as he watches over us all.”

She had been resolute until the end, the fortitude of her faith never once waning, but her passing had shaken Steve, and he was ashamed to admit that he had strayed from his own beliefs for a time afterward.

Carefully removing his boots, Steve stepped up onto the dais. In front of the altar, a thick pelt had been laid atop the polished timber. The coarse fur scratched at Steve’s feet as he knelt down, bowing his head to the floor.

“My Lord Buchanan,” he said, his quiet voice quivering in the cold, late winter air, “Lord of Winter, Master of the Moon, and protector of our people, I have come to present myself to you. The Council of Elders has nominated me to be the next chieftain of our people. With your assent, I shall be consecrated on the morrow.”

Steve’s voice echoed softly in the dark room, gently softened by the ancient wooden structure. It had been the first thing that had been built when his peoples had settled this land, and it had stood for centuries, serving as their clan’s link between the mortal world and the divine. Generations of chieftains had knelt in exactly this spot, and Steve felt the weight of his ancestors settle upon his soul.

“In accordance with the ways of our people, I bring offerings.”

Reaching over, Steve ungracefully hauled the overfilled bags and crate up onto the dais.

“I must confess that not all of these offerings are my own.”

As Steve placed each item upon the smooth marble, he made sure to announce its original gifter. A bag of wheat flour, grown from Monty’s field, harvested and milled by his wife and children; a clay jar of pickled herring, caught by Morita’s wife and pickled by Dugan’s son; a leg of salted ham from a pig that Dernier’s family had raised; a bolt of linen cloth, woven by the Carters; two lengths of strong chorded sailing rope, harvested and braided by the Summers boys; and more and more until the altar was overflowing with offerings.

“I pray that you will accept these gifts on behalf of our people; may they please your divine lordship.” Steve swallowed thickly. “I only have humble offerings to add. A drawing of our town,” Steve said quietly as he placed the parchment upon the altar.

“My father’s sword,” he said, his voice shaking and quiet, reaching to his side. He grasped the scabbard of the sword tied to his belt, releasing it from where it hung. Its handle was so familiar to Steve’s hands, it was like receiving a handshake to a trusted old friend. “With this offering, I pledge my strength to your service, and your service alone.”

Next, Steve reached beneath the collar of his shirt and withdrew the necklace that he always wore next to his skin. “I offer you my mother’s prayer beads, that you may know the depth of my dedication.” Holding the string of wooden beads above the altar, Steve hesitated, his eyes squeezed shut. The force of his mother’s memory pressed down on his lungs, and Steve’s hand trembled.

“I know I have not always been devout,” Steve whispered, “but I kneel before you today without a doubt in my heart. Our people have suffered for many long years for the neglect that my predecessor has shown you, but I promise that I will not follow in his stead.” Unable to look, he allowed the leather chord to slip through his fingers; the small beads clattered softly upon the marble as they hit its surface.

His offerings complete, Steve now had only one final act to perform, and thinking about it made Steve’s stomach churn with anticipation.

He remembered how, as Elder Erskine had escorted him up the path to the sacred hilltop, the old man had pressed a small bundle of cloth into hands.

“What’s this for?” Steve had asked.

“Open it.”

Cradled gently within the soft folds of the fabric sat a small stone bowl, a cup barely the size of his palm. It was made of soapstone which had been moulded into shape before it had been fire-hardened. It must have been old, for the decorative paint which adorned its walls had begun to crack and chip away, and from what Steve knew about colours, he could tell that the pigments required to make these colours came from far off lands and had probably cost more than he could have imagined.

“It is the final piece of the ritual you are about to perform,” said the elder.

“I don’t understand,” Steve said, looking from the small object to the hunched man beside him.

Erskine’s gaze remained on the small building at the crest of the hill. “The fasting and the material offers are not the only things you must do tonight,” he said quietly. “This bowl is almost as old the sanctuary itself. It was crafted from the first piece of soapstone that was mined from our quarry to the east. The ceremony in which you must partake is a momentous one, and as such, a special tribute must be given.”

“What is it?” Steve asked.

“All peoples from all lands make simple offerings to their gods; food and drink and everyday items are commonplace things to find on the altar in any temple. But in times of great need or for ceremonies of great importance, different gods demand different things. Some will require precious jewels and rare polished stones; some need specially brewed elixirs and noxious potions; yet others thirst for freshly spilt blood. The White Star Clan has always placed an offering of fertility upon the Winter Lord’s altar.”

“Fertility?!”

“Yes. The seed of a virile man. It is an ancient tradition, one which has existed since the Winter Lord himself first carved our flesh from the cliff stone, filled our veins with the water of the sea, and breathed the Northern Wind into our lungs.”

Steve had almost tripped over himself. “What?!”

Erskine had simply nodded. “You must fill this bowl with the seed of a virile man. If you are unable, then you must seek out the seed of another. That is our way.”

Steve had not known how to respond.

“This sacred artefact has not been used in many, many years,” the elder had said quietly, his voice almost unheard beneath the gentle breeze that blew in from the ocean. “Although there are several important rites and rituals which call for such a tribute, none have been given in a very, very long time.”

The weight of that statement weighed heavily on Steve, and he felt his determination set in as Erskine had unlocked the heavy set doors.

That determination had not waned since, and so, placing the small, painted soapstone bowl at the foot of the altar, Steve stood, reaching for the hem of his shirt. Carefully, he eased the familiar linen fabric up, over the expanse of his broad, strong shoulders. Next, he unfastened his trousers, allowing them to cascade from his trim waist, over his toned and full backside and his thick, heavy thighs until they pooled at his ankles. Stepping back, naked as the day he was birthed, Steve gathered his clothes into a neat pile and set them aside.

The chilly winter air nipped at his skin, which pebbled in response to the cold.

As Steve knelt back down upon the fur pelt, he felt as though his stomach had turned into a cage full of butterflies, all clamouring to escape. Combing one hand through his short, golden blonde hair, Steve closed his eyes and trailed his other hand down his chest, over his hard abs, and down to his soft cock. Though sheltered from the elements, the cold winter air inside still opposed him, and his skin was drawn up and wrinkled.

Cupping himself, Steve rubbed his warm hand against his cold flesh, and he could feel the blood rushing in response to the heat. Inhaling, Steve felt his heart quicken as he played with himself, slowly coaxing his body into arousal. With nothing but the sound of his own breathing, Steve worked his hand, gently rubbing his supple skin between his fingers, his erection slowly growing as he massaged himself. Longer, wider, and firmer he grew until he was fully hard, his hefty cock filling up his hand.

A soft groan vibrated in Steve’s chest as he gave himself a long stroke from root to tip. His other hand fell to his chest to rub and tweak at a nipple, sending shivers up and down his spine. Steve rubbed the flared head of his cock, the rough texture of his thumb causing his body to twitch in excitement. He could feel the anticipation coiling in his gut, bubbling like a brewing pot over hot coals, the delicious heat rising in his ears.

Despite the chill, Steve was starting to sweat, a thin sheen forming over his muscles as he stroked and pinched himself. He was panting now, and Steve increased the speed of his hand, stoking the flames of his arousal. Keening on every downstroke, Steve felt himself drawing close to oblivion, propelling himself forward as he sought the edge.

Hunching over, Steve caught himself on the edge of the marble altar with one hand, resting his forehead on the cool stone as his blood began to boil. He could feel himself right there, looking over the precipice, his body tight and wound to the breaking point. Up and down he stroked, his movements slicked by sweat and the wetness that wept from his cock; he could feel every muscle straining in delicious pleasure, so close, so close!

Steve bit down on his lip; part of him wanted to linger here, balanced precariously on the brink, to enjoy the pull and the delicious tension in every fibre of his being, but part of him craved the release that was so tantalizingly close. The air, which had once been thin and cold, had become thick and heavy, filled the sounds of his heavy panting and the musky scent of his heat.

Forcing his eyes open, Steve carefully aimed his cock at the bowl between his knees and flicked his wrist as he stroked himself. The extra movement was all it took to send him barrelling into his release. With a deep growl, Steve came, his whole body igniting into flames as the orgasm pulsed through his whole body, making every muscle sing with pleasure. His cock burst like a damn cracked open, his seed shooting forth in a thick, heady stream. It pulsed in time with his body, spilling volley after volley into the vessel below him.

Time seemed to swirl around him as the euphoria slowly began to fade, the once roaring tempo slowing to a murmur, the fire subsiding into ashes. Steve’s limbs quivered from the force of his orgasm, and he felt wrung out as he leaned against the altar, panting. He did not know how long it took for his body to recover, but eventually both his heart and his lungs had calmed.

Leaning back, retrieved the small bowl from the floor, now containing his freshly spilled seed.

Steve spoke, his voice rough. “In accordance with our ways, I give you this piece of myself.” With that declaration, he placed the small bowl on the altar.

Taking a small cloth from his belongings, Steve carefully cleaned himself up, but did not re-dress. Although the ancient customs commanded that he had to sleep upon the dais, it did not dictate how that night was to be spent. As another act of devotion, he planned to sleep unclothed and exposed to the cold night.

As he arranged himself upon the fur pelt, his body beginning to shiver, and Steve could imagine the scolding he would have gotten if any of his friends had known about his plans. Was it unwise to sleep in the nude, without fire or cloth or fur to protect him from the harsh winter? Arguably so, but Steve had always been stubborn. Settling himself in for the night, Steve wondered if he had been the first to make an offering of this kind. Curling upon himself to save what warmth he could, Steve fell asleep thinking about the responsibilities he now faced, with the yawning future that now stretched out before him.

-8-

Steve shivered in the cold morning, burrowing deeper into the luxuriously soft fur draped over his shoulders. Even with his eyes closed, he could feel the gentle heat of the fire and hear the softly crackling embers in the hearth. It had been a cold night, and Steve treasured the warmth that warded off the winter chill, especially so since he was in the nude. His sleep had been peaceful and dreamless, and he sighed, not wanting to face the light of the new day just yet.

As he shifted, his fingers gripping the beaded string in his hand, Steve felt that something was… not right. In the back of his sleepy mind, he registered that not all was as it should be, but the fog of unconsciousness still weight heavy upon him, and he felt as though he were grasping at smoke, unable to catch the source of the fleeting feeling that something was amiss.

Stirring, Steve squinted, forcing his eyes to open – first just a crack, allowing the amber glow of the dying fire bright to fall upon his unfocused eyes, and then slowly wider, as he gradually adjusted to the light. Steve rubbed the sands of sleep from his face as he pushed himself upright, and as he moved, the thick fur-lined coat slid off his bare shoulders.

Steve glanced around, taking in this unfamiliar room. It took a moment for him to remember where he was: at the base of the altar, locked inside the Sanctuary of the Winter Lord. From the soft blue light that leaked in through the closed window, Steve guessed that it was just before dawn.

He sighed. Today he would be consecrated Chieftain of the White Star Clan.

His eyes fell to the dying fire in the hearth, and to the finely made cloak that he had used as a blanket.

Suddenly, Steve was stricken by a moment of clarity, like a lightning bolt during a midnight storm, piercing the darkness to reveal the landscape.

His eyes wide and heart in his throat, Steve stared at the fire. He had not lit the hearth the night before; he had not even brought any firewood into the building with him, so there would not have been anything to burn, even if he had wanted to. And yet… there was a fire, and from the pile of ashes and the size of the glowing coals, it looked like it had been a large one that had been burning down for hours.

Steve could feel the drumbeat of the blood in his ears as he looked down. The cloak that had pooled at his waist was heavy, the outer layer made of a thick, well woven wool, dyed blue. The inside had been lined with fur pelts for warmth; the soft rabbit hair was buttery and velvety to the touch and Steve marveled as he ran his fingers through the silken white strands. Not only was it the most beautifully crafted piece of clothing Steve had even seen, but it was wide and long, and it looked like it would be fastened closed with a set of heavy, gilded silver clasps. He had not brought a cloak with him when he had entered the sanctuary, and even if he did, the one that he owned was nowhere near as fine as this one.

As anxiety and confusion flooded his senses, Steve’s hands flexed, and he was shocked to find an object in his left hand. Bewildered, Steve brought it out from under the cloak, opening it in the light of the fire. When the flickering firelight revealed the string of beads in his palm, Steve’s heart plummeted from where it had been lodged in his throat, straight down into the pit of his stomach. It was his mother’s prayer beads – they were unmistakable; he would know the sight and feel of those carved wooden beads even if he were blind! But the string was thrice as long as it had been the night before, when Steve had dropped it upon the marble altar. Now, between each worn wooden bead were extra ones. New and gleaming, there were all sorts of different beads – some carved from soapstone and others cast from silver or precious metal, there were glass beads tinted with blues and whites and still more hewn from lapis, quartz, and other rare stones.

How… where had these beads come from, and how had they ended up in his hands, when Steve had left them as an offering upon the altar the night before?

With a sharp breath, Steve whirled around, and leg knocked against something beside him. Looking for the item he had dislodged, Steve found a familiar hilt and scabbard lying on the floor.

His father’s sword!

With trembling fingers, Steve unsheathed it, and the hardened steel was revealed, inch by inch. The once-battered sword whose blade had been riddled with nicks and scratches, now shone in the dim morning light, looking as though it had been newly tempered, fresh off the blacksmith’s anvil. Its sides were smooth and spotless, like the glassy surface of a still pond of water, and the edge was sharp enough to split threads.

Sheathing the weapon, Steve scrambled to his feet to check to altar.

It was empty. Last night, the slab of marble had been laden with offerings, overflowing with the things Steve had presented when he had lain down to sleep. Now, only a handful of bare items remained: a wineskin, which had last night been filled to the cork with aged liquor, now hollow and empty; cloth sacks, which had once been full of grains and dried fruit, now folded into a neat little pile; decorated clay jars, which had held picked fish and vegetables, now dry as a bone and clean as they day they were made, stacked into orderly rows; and finally, the small ceremonial bowl which seemed to twinkle in the light of the dawning sun, cleaned empty.

Steve stood upon the dais in shock for several minutes, trying to comprehend what had happened while he had slept. The lighting of the hearth and the disappearances of the offerings could have possibly been explained by an intruder in the night (which was unlikely, since the sanctuary doors were sealed with a heavy lock, for which only Elder Erskine held the key). But the sword, and the prayer beads, and the fine cloak… There could only be one explanation.

Hastily, Steve knelt upon the fur rug.

“Lord Buchanan,” he said, his voice trembling. “Thank you for blessing me with these gifts; I will not forget your generosity, O Great Winter One. I will live up to the vows I have made to you, and I will try to be worthy of your benevolence.”

-8-

Steve was consecrated Chieftain on that chilly winter morn, his father’s sword tied to his belt, his mother’s prayer beads around his neck, and his new fur lined cloak draped over his shoulders. Although Roophoek was the largest town upon White Star Clan lands, their people had also settled many smaller villages, dotted throughout their territory. Kinsmen from all these travelled into Roophoek to witness and celebrate the festive occasion, and the feast that followed rivaled that in the legends.

True to his promise, Steve remained devout to the altar as the cold winter season marched on, making regular visits to the Sanctuary of the Winter Lord; Steve went so often that Elder Erskine had entrusted its key to Steve’s care to save him from the extra trouble. Although he was frequently at the altar to place offerings before the carved idol, he never stayed longer than it took him to present the gifts from the people and to speak several prayers; it felt wrong to linger in that sacred place if he didn’t have a purpose to be there.

The slowly lengthening days began to chase away the cold nights, and as winter drew to a close, the people began their preparations for the coming season. The town seemed to shake itself from hibernation, the people becoming busy with the work that needed to be done as the changing of the season approached. Steve threw himself into his new duties as their leader, lending a helping hand to whoever needed it. Spring arrived early that year and much to everyone’s shock, the earth was gentle as it was roused from its slumber, turning over slowly with a soft yawn and a gentle stretch. The White Star Clan was a people forged in the cradle of adversity; they lived under the harsh thumb of the North, where the rocky fields supported few crops, the short growing season stunted the harvests, the stormy seas devoured many a fishing vessel, and the harsh weather beat down upon them all year round, so the rarity of a gentle season was cause for celebration.

Flowers bloomed, ice thawed, and the gentle warmth of the spring sun coaxed the land to life. Seeds were sown, fishing nets were cast, and a new crop of lambs, calves, and fowl were birthed. When no fields were destroyed by snap frosts, no storms loomed over the sea, and not a single animal was stillborn, the entire clan rejoiced in the blessing. The spring passed smoothly with not a single setback, and the relief and excitement was palpable. Overflowing with gratitude, offerings and adulation poured in from the people, from all corners of their lands, and Steve dutifully laid every single drop, every single grain, every single thread, all of it upon Lord Buchanan’s altar.

The cool spring weather eventually gave way to the warm, sunny summer with nary an ill omen, and the bounty continued to flow: boats returned laden with fish, crops flourished, promising a bumper harvest in the fall, farm animals grew fat and healthy, and the summer storms which often raged hard with thunder and lightening, razing fields and burning buildings, became tame. And when the leaves began to turn and the harvest began, cellars and storerooms were filled to the brim, spilling over with grains, pickled vegetables, salted fish, cured meats, and all manner of foods. The winter that followed, too, was milder than most. The cold seemed to bite with fewer teeth, and the wind seemed the howl with fewer voices. A prosperous year, full of joys and celebration, perhaps the most prosperous in living memory.

Steve passed the mark of his first full year as chieftain in the tail end of winter, surrounded by a happy and healthy people, and was content in his work. As the mild weather gave way to spring once more, the clan was eager to see what riches this new year had in store, hopeful for another year of bounty. But alas, not all good was made to last.

-8-

Steve was at the forge, helping the blacksmiths smelt iron and steel, when he heard the telltale thundering of horse hooves upon the earth, racing towards them at a breakneck speed. Concerned, Steve put down his bellows, wiping the perspiration from his brow as he left the building. The early spring air was still brisk, and a gentle sea breeze cooled the sweat on his bare chest and arms. Shielding his eyes against the midday sun, he spotted a messenger approaching on the road.

“Chieftain!” the rider called as he screeched a halt, almost throwing himself from the saddle. The boy was on the cusp of adulthood, just a year shy of stepping into the word not as a child, but as a young man; he was a lanky and awkward kid who seemed to be made of elbows and limbs that were too long. He had a pale face, a mop of messy brown hair, and wide, brown eyes. Steve recognized Peter as he scrambled to his feet. The boy hailed from the best family of horse breeders in their clan, who hailed from Koninginnen village to the south, near the edge of White Star lands.

“Peter? What’s wrong?”

“From the south,” the boy panted, stooped over with his hands braced upon his knees as he tried to catch his breath. “A Promancorian army!”

Steve’s blood ran cold. The Promancorian people ruled the lands to the south, and their northern boarders brushed up against lands which were owned by the Clans. Brash, aggressive, and greedy, with a thirst for dominion over all, the Promancorian Kings and Lords often rode north seeking conquest. It was in one of these campaigns that Steve’s father had lost his life. But for ten years, nothing larger than a raiding party had ventured into their territory – distracted by petty squabbles amongst themselves, according to Elder Carter’s information.

“What news?” Steve demanded.

“We were trading with merchants from the west; they came from the Iron Helm Clan with word of an entire army marching from the south! We didn’t know if the whispers were true until some shepherds reported sighting of a scouting party on the other side of the Breuckelen river!” Peter’s face was pale and his eyes wide with fear. “We heard rumours that they have been united under the banner of one man, calling himself Emperor.”

“We must act quickly,” Steve said, subconsciously gripping the sword hilt at his side. “Word must be sent to the other clans,” he said, beginning to walk towards the Great Hall; Peter and his steed trailed behind him. They would have to raise the alarm and prepare for battle. Dread pooled in Steve’s stomach; even though there was a chance that they were mistaken – perhaps a hunting party had been mistaken for scouting soldiers – somehow Steve had a feeling that their worst fears were about to be realized. Although bandit raids and boarder clashes were commonplace, there had not been a full scale war since his father’s time.

When Elder Erskine heard the news, the Council was swiftly gathered, and they agreed that confirmation and information was needed. It took no time at all to find the members his team and depart. It took them two days of riding to reach the Breuckelen, which marked the southern edge of the White Star Clan’s territory, and another day to cross it. They continued south, following Peter’s lead, until they stumbled upon paths made by heavy boots. They followed the tracks for another three days, until they found it – at the edge of the forest, in the meadow which gently rolled up to the edge of the treeline, was an encampment.

Hidden in the shadows, Steve made a hand signal to stay low, and the other men crouched down, staying concealed beneath the leaves.

The meadow held a flurry of activity; the men were as bees, busily buzzing about their business. A mass of tents had been pitched in the short grass, leaving enough space between themselves and the looming forest to see any approaching threats to avoid ambush. Some men were felling trees further down, and others were processing the timbers which had already been taken down. The wood was being fashioned into barricades and defensive spikes, and another group of men were constructing what appeared to be a lookout platform.

Steve motioned Gabe forward.

Gabe’s dark brow furrowed. “They’re building a base.”

“Looks permanent.”

Gabe nodded. “See, back there,” he said pointing. “Looks like they’re making preparations for a larger party.”

“So this is the advance force?”

“Appears to be. Must be setting the stage, establishing a camp for the main army.”

That did not bode well. Already the size of these forces was more than the White Star Clan could handle on their own, and fighting an organized army was leagues apart from simple bandits or raiding parties.

Steve did not waste any more time; pulling the team back into the forest, he immediately issued orders. Peter was dispatched to the west, for he was the fastest rider among the group, out to the Iron Helm Clan, and after the message had been received, further on to the Clan of the Unseeing Eye beyond them. Then, he sent Falsworth to the Crowned Clan to the east, and Morita to the Clan of Red Mists. Gabe, Monty, and Steve then mounted up and rode hard for home.

In the time that they had been gone, their people had been preparing for battle, and a tense atmosphere had settled over the Roophoek. Thought of a battle, or, god forbid, threat of a full scale war, was sobering and it hung over the town like a miasma. Although he knew that they would be ready, Steve’s nerves still churned. Having fought on the battlefield since he was fifteen summers old, he was an experienced warrior, but this was a scale which Steve had never known before. Would he have the ability to lead them to victory?

Once the Council had been informed of the news and plans had been laid, Steve immediately ran to Elder Erskine’s house to gather the offerings that had amassed in his absence. Unlike his predecessor, Steve never demanded offerings from the people; instead, he allowed them to volunteer whatever they could afford to give up. Normally, people would bring their offerings to Steve at his home, but since he had been away, Elder Erskine had collected the offerings in his place. A mountain of offerings had piled up, both a product of his extended absence and, Steve suspected, a fear for the threat of looming violence. Steve needed two trips with a cart to get everything to the top of the hill.

Presenting each offering took much longer than usual, and by the time Steve had finished, the items spilling off the altar and onto the dais, it was late in the afternoon. Falling to his knees at the base of the altar, Steve’s voice shook as he spoke.

“My Lord Buchanan, an army is amassing at our boarders; I fear that war may be upon us. I come today to seek your aid and I pray for your blessings; please protect our people, our warriors who march in your name, and those who remain in the villages behind the battle lines; please give us the strength to prevail over our enemies and the power to defend our land and our lives.”

Reaching into his cloak, Steve produced the small decorated bowl that he guarded carefully for the last year. Shivering at the memory of that night, he placed the painted cup on the floor in front of him. Though he had always kept it close, Steve had not used the vessel since the eve of his consecration.

Carefully, Steve stripped out of his clothes, his heart rate increasing with each garment that he removed, until he was kneeling naked upon the thick fur pelt.

“According to this ancient rite, I give to you a tribute of fertility,” Steve whispered, feeling like a small boy trapped in the tall and broad form of a man he could have only wished to become. “For the survival of our people, I would give you anything.”

“That is a very bold thing to say.”

Steve’s heart jumped into his throat and he found himself on his feet in an instant, his sword drawn and at the ready. The voice had pierced the quiet calm of the sanctuary, echoing softly off the polished timbre walls.

“Who goes there?” Steve demanded, his eyes darting from one place to the next as he sought out the source of the voice. The orange glow of the late afternoon sun cast long shadows into the room, but even still, he was sure that there were few places to hide.

“One must either be very brave or very foolish to make such offer. Or perhaps, it takes one with ample amounts of both.” The voice was low and quiet, with a deep timbre and a smooth cadence; its texture was like the slow drip of golden honey along the back of an aged wooden spoon, and it made Steve’s hair stand on end.

“This is a sacred place!” Steve almost shouted, his body coiled tense at the intrusion upon this most holy ground. “None but the chieftain and the council of elders are permitted to enter here! Show yourself and beg forgiveness, or I shall strike you down where you stand!”

The creaking of floorboards caught his attention, and Steve turned to find a man stepping out of shadows, ones which Steve could have sworn had been empty just moments before. The rays of sunshine fell upon a tall and muscular figure. From this distance, it was hard to say whether he was on par with Steve’s height, but he definitely looked like he matched Steve in strength.

The man was dressed in the finest clothes Steve had ever lain his eyes upon – the white linen cloak that was draped across his broad, bare shoulders was closed with a gilded silver clasp, and the fabric was intricately embroidered from collar to hem; a pattern of snowflakes and falling leaves were wrought in delicate silver thread. The design webbed across the entire garment, gleaming and glittering in the light as the figure moved out of the darkness. A light dusting of fine, dark hairs was sprinkled across his chest and down the centre of his chiseled abs, disappearing beneath the waistband of a pair of dark blue linen trousers.

If the quality and splendor of the garments had not been enough to scream of immeasurable wealth, man was also positively dripping in jewelry. An elegant crown woven from silver and gold, affixed with diamonds and sapphires, sat regally upon the man’s brow, and it contrasted starkly against the dark, chestnut brown hair that fell in gentle waves to his shoulders. Several locks of his silky, soft-looking hair had been twisted into thin braids, each decorated with beads of glass, silver, and carved bone woven into the strands. Exquisitely delicate silver chains were wrapped around his neck, wrists, and ankles; some were plain, and others adorned with charms. Each one alone must have cost a fortune, and the sheer weight of the silver the man was wearing made Steve’s head swim. His hands too, were heavily ornamented – each of his fingers was affixed with rings of all sizes, some studded with precious gems and stones.

“Speak to me like that once more and it will be the last words to leave your lips,” the figure admonished harshly.

Steve’s sword clattered to the floor as he hastily fell to his knees, for there was only one person this could be. “Please forgive me, my lord!” Steve gasped, bowing until his face touched the floor.

Lord Buchanan clicked his tongue. “Hm… since this is the first time that we have met, I suppose you could not have recognized to whom you were speaking… so I will excuse your ignorance just this once. But you have been warned, Steven. Do not make that mistake again.”

“Yes, my lord!”

Steve heard the clinking of silver and the soft steps of bare feet upon the floor approaching.

“That’s enough of that. You may rise,” said Lord Buchanan, his voice gentle once more.

Steve slowly lifted his head, but remained on his knees and kept his eyes cast straight in front. From his position on the raised dais, he was eye level to Lord Buchanan’s chest. It was from this here that Steve noticed one more piece of jewelry: each of the lord’s dark coloured nipples was pierced with a delicate ring, and the sight alone sent Steve’s blood racing.

“Let’s have a look at you,” Lord Buchanan said quietly. Steve almost jumped when soft fingers touched his chin, tilting his face up until he met the Winter Lord’s piercing gaze. Steve was startled to find himself staring into silvery gray irises, which held an ethereal, almost inhuman glow. It was slightly unnerving, and those glittering eyes were calculative as they assessed him from beneath a pair of thick, dark eyebrows. “There we are.”

Steve could feel his blood pounding in his ears.

“Now, I believe you were about to give tribute.”

Steve inhaled sharply, feeling every inch of his nakedness all at once, and his body immediately flushed with embarrassment, the heat spreading over his face, neck, shoulders, and chest.

Lord Buchanan hummed, sounding pleased, and leaned forward. “Perhaps you need some help,” he said in a whisper, his cool breath ghosting over Steve’s face.

Steve’s whole body shivered.

With gentle nudges, the Winter Lord coaxed Steve backwards, until there was enough room for him to kneel on the dais with Steve. “Turn around,” he murmured. His large, warm hands touched Steve’s bare hips, turning him to face the altar.

Looking down, Steve found the small painted bowl between his spread knees. Lord Buchanan moved up behind him, and a moan escaped from Steve’s throat as the god pressed his firm body against Steve’s back, bracketing him on either side. He could feel the warmth radiating from Lord Buchanan’s body, and the firmness of his muscles against his back. Beneath the woven linen trousers, he could feel the telltale press of a half-hard erection settling into the valley of his ass, and he squirmed at the firm touch.

Steve felt the cool brush of the Winter Lord’s nose against his neck, at the hinge of his jaw, slowly trailing up to the hidden spot behind his ear and the god’s hands rubbed small circles into his hips. “Have you found pleasure with another before?” asked Lord Buchanan.

Steve shook his head no. He had, from a young age, discovered his preference for men, and had often brought himself to completion with his mind brimming with images of men, fantasizing about all the ways one could be fulfilled by another man’s touch, but he had never found the courage to partake in such pleasures in the company of another. Not that he had been overlooked – nay, once his growth had finished sweeping through his body, transforming him from small and scrawny to big and strong, he had caught many a wandering eye, and had more than his fair share of interest. And yet, Steve had never felt comfortable accepting any of those advances.

“What a shame, that you have been deprived of such joys,” Lord Buchanan said quietly, and the twinge of sadness in his voice seemed misplaced in the heated air between them. “Would you surrender yourself to me?” he asked.

“Yes,” Steve said, nodding fervently. Never before could he have dreamed of being in such a position, in the hands of a literal god, but having found himself here, against all of his wildest dreams, Steve felt deep in his heart that there was no where else he would rather be.

“You bestow upon me such a fragile gift,” Lord Buchanan said. “I will handle it with care.”

The solemnity of the promise shook Steve at his core, and he was almost moved to tears. He felt as though he were small again, made little by the power and strength hidden behind the soft voice and gentle touch.

“Do not be afeared,” said the Winter Lord, “I will bring great pleasure to your release.”

Being this close, Lord’s Buchanan’s scent filled Steve’s nose – it was heavy and deep, like a wine cellar stacked with well aged oak barrels, each filled with the most expensive of spirits. He had barely been touched and yet the slightest whisper of Winter Lord’s voice and the mere hint of his fragrance was enough to send his mind spinning with heady arousal. It felt like an invisible hand had reach down Steve’s throat and twisted his innards into a mess of anticipation, and he felt powerless to do anything about it – not that he objected, no, much to the contrary.

Lord Buchanan hummed once more, nibbling on the shell of Steve’s ear as his hands began to smooth over his skin. One moved across and up, sweeping over Steve’s abs and up to his chest, gently caressing and kneading Steve’s firm muscles as it went. The other shifted down, brushing down over the front of his thighs before moving in, trailing up the inside of his thighs.

“M-My lord!” Steve cried softly. Desire spiked through his body, and Steve choked on his breath as he tried to inhale; he felt like he was small and sickly once again, struggling with every moment to draw enough air into lungs. Looking down, he watched as deft fingers played with his balls, teasing at the loose skin. Lord Buchanan gave another tug and squeeze, and the overwhelming sensation sent Steve falling back to lean his weight against the body behind him. His hands flew down to balance himself, grasping at the thick, muscular legs that framed him from behind.

“Steady,” the deep voice, said.

Deft nails scraped and pinched Steve’s chest, and Steve cried out at the sudden pleasure.

“Too much?”

Steve squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. “P-Please!” he panted.

A deep chuckle. “Very well.” The hand on his chest continued to tease him as the other hand moved up to circle around the base of Steve’s cock. “Mmm, impressive,” Lord Buchanan murmured as he wrapped one hand around him.

Steve could feel the delicious thickness of each digit, and the ridge of each ring was smooth and hot against his flesh.

“And not even full yet,” he said as he gave Steve an agonizingly slow stroke from base to tip and back again. “Very good,” he all but purred.

As he was given another stroke, Steve’s head lolled limply against Lord Buchanan’s shoulder, his mouth gaping open like a fish out of water. The soft hand gripping his cock was firm, but not too tight, and Steve’s body felt as though it had been set aflame. He would have been ashamed of how fast he was reaching the edge, if only he had the space in his mind to spare the thought.

Lips and teeth sucked and nipped at the tendons of Steve’s neck as the hand continued to stroke him. Lord Buchanan swiped his thumb around the crown of his cock, swirling across its head with each pass, and the rough scrape of skin across his sensitive glans made him cry out with pleasure, his hips bucking involuntarily into the air.

“That’s right, gorgeous.”

Steve could feel his whole body tensing as he was pushed higher and higher with every stroke, the pace increasing with every moment. His hands clenched tight, knuckles white and fingernails digging into the hard, chorded muscle of Lord Buchanan’s thighs. The heavy, searing hot bulge of the lord’s own erection at his backside was tantalizing, and Steve felt his hole clenching as his pleasure continued to skyrocket.

The Winter Lord groaned, a deep and throaty rumble; Steve could feel it in the lord’s chest as it vibrated against his back. It was a guttural sound, and it made Steve eyes begin to roll into the back of his head. “You’re so beautiful.”

Sweat beaded all over Steve’s skin, dripping down his brow, between his shoulder blades, in the dip between his heaving chest, and down his abs, as each muscle in his body braced in anticipation. “I-I… I’m close!” he gasped as his vision began to blur.

Lord Buchanan moaned, long and deep. “That’s it, let yourself go; let me see you become undone,” he said as his hand flew up and down Steve’s rock hard and leaking cock at a punishing speed. “Show me your release.”

The deep, low voice, speaking softly into his ear, was all that it took.

Steve peaked with a choke of desperation, his entire body clenching tight as the orgasm was ripped from his body. He screamed as it crashed over him like a tempest sweeping through him in an instant. He convulsed, every fibre of his being strung taught, as he shot his load, erupting like a fountain. His blood felt like molten gold, scalding his veins as it raced through his body, pulsing in time with his every release. As he rode wave after crushing wave of ecstasy, he could feel teeth biting down hard on his shoulder, the sharp pinch of nails on his chest, and the rough and torturous scrape of the hand that continued to stroke him hard and fast, propelling him through the crest of pleasure as it swamped all his senses.

He felt like he was drowning in an ocean, fighting for breath and control of his body. Slowly, the harsh burn began to subside, receding slowly as the raging fire started to abate. And yet the hand gripping him did not relent. Steve cried out as his nerves were rubbed raw, the pleasure turning into pain as the rough abrasion raked against his sensitive cock.

“M-My lord!” Steve sobbed desperately as he felt Lord Buchanan’s large fingers harshly squeezing the head of his cock, wringing out one last drop of his seed. The pad of his thumb roughly pressed over his heated, the brutal pressure bringing him near to tears.

“You were amazing,” said the Winter Lord, and Steve wept with relief when he was released.

Panting heavily, Steve lay propped up against the god’s muscular frame as he tried to recover. The intensity of his release had ebbed away, leaving behind a soft glowing feeling, and he felt entirely loose and limp.

“There, there,” Lord Buchanan soothed, his hands gently petting over Steve’s spent body. “Look at how well you did.”

Steve struggled to open his eyes, but eventually, he mustered the strength to open them and look down. Lord Buchanan had angled his release towards the bowl. Although he had made a mess, it was nonetheless overfilled with Steve’s freshly spilled seed. The excess was splattered across the floor and dripping down over the lord’s fingers and hand.

“I am very pleased with this tribute,” Lord Buchanan said softly into Steve’s ear.

He watched as the Winter Lord lifted his hand from Steve’s softening erection to his lips; a soft, velvety looking pink tongue darted out and Steve gasped as Lord Buchanan licked the essence from his long fingers. The god hummed with contentment as he slurped up the thick, creamy liquid. Beneath his ass, Steve could feel Lord Buchanan’s thick cock throb with arousal.

Reaching back, Steve palmed at the clothed erection. “M-My lord,” he said, still trying to regain his breathe. Steve turned to look into that pair of striking, stormy silver eyes, and the erection beneath his hand twitched, rekindling inside Steve the fire which had just burned through his body.

“What is it?” asked the god, quirking an eyebrow.

Steve was unsure of what he was permitted to ask of this titan, but he steadied his voice anyways. “I would like pleasure you.”

Lord Buchanan regarded him silently, and Steve stubbornly refused to look away. “Only if you are eager,” he said after a moment.

Steve swallowed the lump in his throat. “I am not experienced, but I am eager,” he said firmly as he pushed down the gnawing fears that rose up within him.

“Very well.”

Carefully, Steve turned around on his knees, bringing him face to face with Lord Buchanan’s wide, firm chest. Paralyzed by nerves, Steve wasn’t sure how to proceed, and several moments passed as he tried to work up the courage to reach out.

A warm, dry hand cupped his jaw, tilting it upwards. “Steven.”

“Y-Yes my lord?” he asked, searching Lord Buchanan’s handsome face. His eyes soaked in every feature of the striking visage, and noticed that the god had tucked his hair behind his ear, revealing how the tip curved up into a high point at the top.

“You are not bound by duty or obligation to offer yourself this way.”

Steve felt like his throat had been glued shut. “No!” he struggled to say. “I want this! I do. I want… I want to please you.”

Lord Buchanan regarded him carefully, his eyes searching Steve’s face, and the young chieftain squared his shoulders, despite feeling himself blush under the scrutinizing gaze. Steve did not know what the Winter Lord saw, or if he was satisfied with what he found, but after a moment, the hand cupping his jaw slid around to the base of his skull, and gently pulled him forward.

Steve allowed himself to be drawn in, until his face was nestled in Lord Buchanan’s chest. Instinctively, Steve wrapped his arms around the body before him, his bare arms sliding against the god’s broad back. The Winter Lord’s chest was muscular, firm as stone, and as cool as the gentle evening breeze on a brisk winter morning. Groaning softly, Steve couldn’t help but rub his face against it; the skin was slick with a thin film of perspiration, and the soft, light dusting of hair tickled his nose and cheeks. When he inhaled, the heady aroma of Lord Buchanan’s body filled his nose, earthy and sharp, the edges tinged with the acrid sweet scent of sweat.

He felt more than he heard Lord Buchanan’s chuckle as he stroked his fingers through the short hairs at the back of Steve’s neck.

Emboldened, Steve licked at the warm skin in front of him. A deep, musky flavour sparked his senses, drawing a moan from him. Hungry for more, Steve lapped and kissed at Lord Buchanan’s chest, moving across its wide expanse until he reached one of the silver piercings. Greedily, Steve sucked it between his lips, worrying the ring and the hardening flesh gently between his teeth.

“Ah!” Lord Buchanan gasped, arching back.

Encouraged, Steve bit down harder, flicking the pierced nub with his tongue.

The god’s hips bucked upwards and his hands fisted in Steve’s hair and on his forearm. “Y-Yes!”

Pleased with the response, Steve continued to play with the ring. He revelled in Lord Buchanan’s reactions, from the way his body twitched to the litany of sounds that fell from his lips. After a few minutes, his confidence building, Steve kissed his way across to the neglected nipple, and spent several minutes toying with that piercing as well. By the time he began to kiss his way down Lord Buchanan’s abs, following the trail of fine hairs downwards, the god was panting hard.

The Winter Lord’s pants were tied with a drawstring; the thin material was tented by the beast hiding within it and stained by a dark wet spot – visible proof of his arousal.

With careful fingers, Steve untied the chord and pulled the fine linen down, dislodging it from the swell of Lord Buchanan’s plump ass and his rock hard erection, down over his heavy thighs, allowing it to pool at his knees.

Steve had often fantasized about pleasuring another man, but now that he found himself on his hands and knees, staring straight at Lord Buchanan’s hard, dripping cock, he had to admit that this was nothing like how he imagined it would be. Suddenly, Steve’s nerves slammed back into him. The Winter Lord was noticeably bigger than Steve was, and his size was intimidating up close. He was sure that Lord Buchanan was longer than him, and he was substantially thicker too.

Exhaling shakily, Steve ran one hand up a muscled leg as he balanced his weight on the other. Carefully, willing his fingers not to tremble, he reached forwards to wrapped them around the base of Lord Buchanan’s cock. It barely fit in his grasp; his thumb and forefinger were just barely touching. The erection in his hand was shockingly cool, its skin slick. Steve could feel his heart pounding against his ribcage as he moved his hand, sliding halfway up, then back down again; it was long enough that Steve knew he could grasp it in both hands without overlap and still leave the entire head untouched. Lord Buchanan’s erection twitched, and a drop of liquid beaded at its tip.

Steve flicked his gaze up. Lord Buchanan’s eyes were closed, his mouth open. One had was still fisted in Steve hair while the other hand had fallen to his shoulder.

Opening his mouth, Steve gently, carefully licked at the tip. Instantly, an intense flavour exploded across his tongue; musky, salty, and bitter, it made his eyes water. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it was unexpectedly intense, and he couldn’t stop himself from flinching.

“Too much?”

Steve shook his head; he needed a moment to collect himself, but he was determined to continue. Leaning forward once more, he went in for another taste. This time, he started from the side, trailing his tongue along the flared ridge of the thick crown, around the edge of the head. The taste of sweat watered down the pungent flavour from before, and Steve was able to work through the unpleasant flavour as he brought his lips into the action. Sucking down on the side of Lord Buchanan’s cock as he continued to lavish the hardness with his tongue, Steve could feel the pulse of blood in the thick veins that snaked up and down the length. It was such an intimate act, and the taste and scent were intoxicating, filling his senses and stroking the arousal within his own body.

After working his way around the incredible girth, Steve licked up from beneath the head, collecting up the clear, salty-bitter liquid that had been dripping from the tip; he was expecting the heavy, concentrated flavour this time, and he could feel his own blood rushing south as he swallowed it down. Gaze flittering upwards, he watched Lord Buchanan’s muscles tense as he slid his lips over the whole cockhead, welcoming it into the warmth of his mouth.

Lord Buchanan moaned, his fingers clenching and unclenching as Steve swirled his tongue over and around the sensitive flesh. Squeezing the base of the cock with one hand, Steve sucked gently as he worked up the courage to go deeper. The Winter Lord was larger than anyone he had ever seen before, and even with just the head in his mouth, he felt fuller than he ever imagined he could be. Steve was afraid that he would have to unhinge his jaw to fit even a fraction of this monstrous length into his mouth.

But Steve was not afraid; his mind was bombarded by the onslaught of new sensations, consumed by a seemingly unquenchable thirst for more. Opening his jaw until it ached, Steve moved down, sinking the throbbing cockhead further into his mouth as he squeezed its base with his other hand.

A soft cry spilled from Lord Buchanan, and his hips bucked up unexpectedly; the motion thrust his cock into the back his throat, and Steve immediately dry-heaved, his eyes stinging with tears.

“Shit!” gasped Lord Buchanan.

Coughing, Steve’s eyes watered as he tried to catch his breath.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes, my lord,” Steve said, his voice hoarse.

“We should stop if-”

“N-No! No, please,” Steve begged, stroking Lord Buchanan as he talked. “I can do this!”

“You have nothing to prove, young chieftain.”

“I know. I… I’ve dreamed of this moment for a long time. Please.”

Lord Buchanan was silent for a moment. “Very well.”

Steve looked up and found the Winter Lord regarding him with an almost soft expression. “Thank you, my lord,” he said, feeling comforted by the fingers that gently carded through his hair.

Feeling ready to try again, Steve mounted his lips back onto Lord Buchanan’s cock, the bitter flavour becoming more familiar to him with every taste. Working more slowly this time, he eased himself into a shallow rhythm, bobbing up and down on the head. When he felt accustomed to the fullness, he bobbed deeper, bringing more and more of the throbbing erection into his mouth. At the same time, he used the hand wrapped around its thick base to squeeze and stroke at the substantial amount that he wasn’t able to fit into his mouth.

“I like it a bit rough; use a little bit of your teeth.”

Obediently, Steve allowed his teeth to gently graze the length on his next downstroke, and Lord Buchanan moaned lewdly at the contact.

“Yesss,” Lord Buchanan hissed. “Yes, just like that; you- ah! Shit, that’s good.”

Pride swelled up in Steve at the sound of the gentle praise, and he doubled his efforts. He was breathing heavily through his nose, and he could taste the sticky liquid that was steadily leaking from Lord Buchanan’s slit with every upstroke.

The Winter Lord was panting heavily, his skin slicked and dripping with sweat. Steve could feel the powerful muscles in the god’s body twitching, and knew that he must be close. Eager to see Lord Buchanan lose himself in the pleasure, Steve worked all the more, the thick, blunt head of the cock bumping up against the back of his throat as he worked, twisting his hand as he swept it up and down the unswallowed length, slicked from sweat and the spit that dripped down from his lips. His jaw protested from being stretched so far, yet Steve pushed harder and faster; he could feel the tension coiling in Lord Buchanan, twisting like a spring, until-

The Winter Lord came with guttural growl, his hips thrusting up into Steve’s mouth.

Steve choked, but did his best to keep his lips wrapped around the thick head as it exploded, spewing seed into his mouth. The first volley sprayed all the way to the back of his throat, thick and scalding, and Steve almost snorted. Swallowing as quickly as he could, Steve continued to stroke with his hand and flick the head with his tongue as wave after wave of seed flooded his mouth; it was salty and incredibly bitter and Steve had to fight every instinct to gag and cough. With tears streaming down his face, he tried to swallow as much of it as he could, but he simply could not keep up with Lord Buchanan’s virility; the excess leaked out of the corner of his mouth and trickled down his chin and throat.

It seemed like Lord Buchanan’s release lasted for an eternity, and Steve was sure that he had drank an entire ocean by the time it was over. The Winter Lord slumped forward when it was finally over, massaging Steve’s aching back as he did so. His spent member slipped from Steve lips, leaving his mouth coated in a sticky mess.

Several minutes passed as they both floated down from the euphoric high, the silence only broken by heavy breathing and hammering hearts.

“Did I please you, my lord?” Steve asked, finding his voice rough and coarse from the abuse.

A pair of strong hands moved him upright, and Steve blinked his eyes open to find himself startlingly close to a pair of icy eyes. “You have performed admirably,” Lord Buchanan said quietly. “I am most pleased.”

Steve sighed with relief.

“Are you harmed?” asked the soft voice as gentle thumbs brushed away drying tears from his face.

“No, my lord,” he said. Steve felt used, but in the most fulfilled way possible. He didn’t understand this strange, almost contradictory feeling, but he was satisfied, and was happy to have brought such pleasure to another.

“Good,” said Lord Buchanan, and he pressed a kiss to Steve’s forehead before drawing the man to his chest, cradling him in his strong arms.

Steve relaxed, and he felt at peace. In fact, Steve realized as his mind began to wander, it was the first time he had felt such peace in a long, long time. He had not been held like this since he was a boy, and he hadn’t realized how much he missed it until this very moment.

“Hush now, Steven,” whispered Lord Buchanan, and Steve was shocked to find his face wet with tears.

Confused, Steve let out a sob as more tears escaped him.

Lord Buchanan rocked him gently. “All will be well.”

“I… I don’t understand,” Steve said, clinging to the arms that embraced him.

He was answered by the brush of cool lips on his brow. Steve sat in Lord Buchanan’s warm embrace until the tears stopped falling.

“I’m sorry.”

“There is nothing to be sorry for,” Lord Buchanan replied.

Steve felt so safe here, and he was reluctant to leave this moment for the world that lay beyond- with a sharp gasp, he suddenly remembered why he was here. “My lord! In the south! An army approaches-”

“I know,” Lord Buchanan said solemnly.

“I fear that we are on the cusp of war.”

Lord Buchanan nodded. “Unfortunately, I agree.”

“Please, is there anything you can do to help us?”

Lord Buchanan stroked one large hand up and down Steve’s back. “It is forbidden for the gods to step foot onto the mortal plane, outside the confines of their holy grounds, such as this place. I cannot march onto the battlefield to lead our warriors, nor am I permitted to smite down your foes with my power. However, the same laws that prevent me from doing so to your enemies also prevent the gods of your enemies from doing the same to you. In this way, they are protected from me, and you are protected from them.”

Dread began to pool in the pit of Steve’s stomach at the thought of having to go on without any aid.

“But,” Lord Buchanan continued, “that does not mean I am powerless to help you. I am permitted to bestow blessings upon you and the warriors who fight in my name, blessings whose power grows according to the devotion and offerings that I receive.”

“Really?”

“Yes. The people of the White Star Clan have been pious and generous, and for this, you will be rewarded. In exchange, I can extend to you all some of my protection. I cannot shield you entirely from the atrocities of war, but with my power, the suffering and loss of life can be lessened.”

Steve swallowed. It was hard to hear that they would not come out of this affair unscathed, but he supposed that this was better than nothing.

“I cannot guarantee you victory in battle, and I cannot push the tide against the current, but my blessings can help tip the odds in your favour.” Lord Buchanan placed one large hand on Steve’s shoulder. “The rite you have performed tonight is also very powerful, and for your selflessness, I can further bestow upon you an exceptional gift. My blessing will allow you to move faster, be stronger, and have more endurance than any mortal human. Your mind will be quicker, your reflexes better, and your senses heightened.”

“My lord! I… I’m honoured to bear this gift!”

Lord Buchanan nodded. “Each difference is small, and may be hard for another mortal to detect unless they are watching you very, very carefully, but together, this boon will allow you to perform better than anyone else.”

“T-Thank you, my lord!”

“But take heed, Steven. Have care, for this blessing is not permanent. It will last you for one moon, after which it will fade, and your abilities will return to normal. If you wish to regain this power from me once more, you must return here and give tribute once again.”

“Yes! I can do that!”

Lord Buchanan nodded. “Very well.” His eyes looked over Steve’s shoulder, and Steve followed his gaze to the windows. Beyond the slated shutters, he could see the dying embers of the setting sun. “It is time for you to go now. The men await their orders.”

Steve swallowed, but squared his shoulders in determination.

“Tread carefully, and think clearly before you act. You are a smart man, Steven.”

“You are too kind, my lord,” Steve said, bowing his head. “I will do my best to be worthy of your praises. I promise to return with the spoils of battle to offer at your altar.”

“Very well. I await your arrival. Go forth with my blessings.”

Hastily, Steve stood to dress. He reached for his pants, and when he turned to catch one more glimpse of the incredible being he had just been with, he found the room empty. Stunned, his eyes flitted to the marble slab which had only moments before been laden with gifts, only to find it suddenly cleared; as usual, the emptied containers had stacked neatly in rows occupied its surface. On the floor, the once filled painted cup was bone dry and sparkling clean.

Carefully, Steve retrieved the sacred bowl, wrapping it in its protective cloth and slipping it into his clothes.

-8-

Steve had been reluctant to part with the key to the Winter Lord’s sacred sanctuary, but it was important for the Elders to place offerings upon the alter in his place while he was on the battlefield.

The warriors of the White Star clan had prepared with haste, and immediately marched to meet their opponents. Steve knew that it was fruitless to attempt a head-on confrontation, so he quickly devised a plan; he organized the men and women into smaller groups, which harried and harassed the Promancorian troops from the safety of the forest or under the protection of the night. Steve himself led the Howlies on many raids over the next two weeks, attempting to weaken the invading forces.

The packed light a moved fast, never lingering in one place. The warriors melted into and out of the trees like wraiths, using the knowledge of the land to their advantage, but despite their efforts, the Promancorian ranks continued to swell with new troops arriving almost daily. Steve was therefore relieved when it was agreed that an Assembly of Chieftains should be called.

The chosen meeting place was located on the secure side of the Breuckelen river, in the shade of an old growth forest. A large table had been hastily constructed, with five heavy stones placed at even intervals to serve as seats. It was two days’ ride from the front lines, and Steve made sure to arrive early, just as the sun was rising. The Howlies had accompanied him, and Steve was anxious as he waited. He was barely a year into his chieftainship, a newling by any standard, and he had yet to formally meet any of the other chieftains.

The delegation from the Clan of Red Mists arrived first, their iconic crimson banner fluttering in the light breeze. The woman who led their small party walked with purpose, and she held a firm air of authority about her. She was shorter than Steve by a head, but her compact body moved in a way that Steve knew spoke of deadly power. She wore a scarlet-dyed cloak about her shoulders, her tunic and trousers covered by a layer of thick leather armour. From each hip hung a hilted sword, and Steve wondered if she was a skilled in the art of twinblades.

Steve stood from his seat as they approached the table. “Chiftainess of the Clan of Red Mists, I welcome you,” he said, inclining his head in greeting.

The woman inclined her head briefly in return. “Well met, Chieftain of the White Star Clan. I am Wanda, of House Maximoff. This is my Second, Pietro of House Maximoff, and our advisors.”

Steve nodded at the introductions, and then made his own. “Well met; I am Steven, of House Rogers, and these are my shield brothers.”

“Shall we?” said Chieftainess Wanda, indicating to the table.

“Please do,” Steve replied, resuming his seat.

The chieftainess took stone immediately to Steve’s left and turned to face him. This close, Steve could see the vibrance in her green eyes, framed by her oval face and braided light brown hair. “I hope we do not have to wait long for the others; we have much to discuss.”

“Indeed, we do,” said Steve.

“It is good to meet you, Chieftain Steven, although I regret it must be under such inauspicious circumstances.” As she spoke, her second moved to stand behind her. Pietro was slightly taller, and though his eyes were blue and his hair white, his face bore a striking resemblance to Wanda’s, leading Steve to conclude that they must be siblings.

“I, too, wish that we could have met under better circumstances.”

Before he could say more, Monty tapped his shoulder. “Another party approaches,” he said, and all eyes searched for the incoming delegation.

Another two parties were approaching from opposite sides of the forest; the bright blue pennants of Crowned Clan accompanied one, and the black streamers of the Clan of the Unseeing Eye accompanied the other. The Crowned Clan reached them first, and Wanda and Steve both rose to greet them.

The man in the lead strode forth with a confident air, his face graced with a wide smile, clear blue eyes, and long, dark blond hair that fell to his shoulders. He was tall and imposing, his very muscular body dressed in battle leathers and a cape the colour of wheat fields before the harvest. “Chieftainess Wanda!” he exclaimed with cheer as he clasped her arm. “It has been ages!”

“Only three years,” the woman replied.

“That is three too many!” the man’s booming voice returned. “And you must be Chieftain of the White Star Clan!” he said, turning to Steve. “Well met! I am Thor, of house Odinson, Chieftain of the Crowned Clan.”

“Well met,” Steve returned as he clasped the proffered arm, finding the man’s grip every bit as strong as he was expecting. “I am Steven, of House Rogers.”

“Health and blessings!” Thor replied.

A man from their group approached Thor, a sour expression on his long and sharp face. “Don’t be overly friendly, brother,” he said, eyeing daggers at all in attendance. He was dressing in long flowing linens, dyed green and black, which contrasted from his pale, milky complexion.

“Hush, Loki; we are all Children of the North here. They are our kin, no matter how distant.”

The scowl upon Loki’s face deepened, but he said nothing more.

Soon after, the group from the Clan of the Unseeing Eye joined them. Their chieftainess introduced herself to Steve as Natasha, of House Romanov, her second, Clinton, of House Barton, and her Third, Samuel, of House Wilson. She was a small woman, with earthy brown eyes, fiery red hair, and an aura of danger about her. As her gaze swept over him, Steve felt like he was being assessed by a dangerous creature, and he could almost physically feel the calculations running through her mind. When she was finished, she moved to greet the others. While she had an icy expression, Steve noticed that Wanda received a marginally less brusque greeting than the others.

As they waited for the last delegations to arrive, the other chieftains fell into conversation amongst themselves. They all seemed to know each other, and Steve couldn’t help but feel like an outsider as he listened to their banter, and he tried to quash the insecurity that bled into him. Part of him thought he should insert himself into the discussion, but another part of him did not want to interrupt without anything to contribute. Torn by indecision, Steve had still not spoken up when finally, another clan emerged from the trees, bearing the golden cloth of the Iron Helm Clan.

“Peace, Chieftain Anthony!” Thor exclaimed happily, his arms wide in welcome.

The leader at the head of the pack was a small man, clad in iron armour that had been painted with red and gold. From beneath his helmet, Steve could make out the small nose and short goatee that graced his features. “Yes, well, hello,” said the chieftain, and he grimaced as he clasped Thor’s offered arm. “You haven’t changed one bit, Thor.”

The larger man grinned in response, seemly unaffected by the lack of formality.

Without even greeting the remaining chieftains, the man seated himself on the rock across from where Steve was standing. “I see everyone’s already here. Good. We can get straight down to business then,” he said, rapping his knuckle on the hastily carved wood. “Alright, sit down and let’s begin.”

“I don’t recall putting you in charge of the agenda today,” said Natasha as she took her seat between Wanda and Anthony.

The smaller man leaned forward on one elbow. “Well, as the longest serving chieftain of the group, I claim that right,” he replied, giving Natasha a forced smile that Steve thought looked more like a grimace than anything else.

“That is not a right to be claimed; it is one to be given,” said Wanda from Steve’s left.

Anthony waved his hand flippantly. “Technicalities. Regardless, can we hurry up here?”

Steve could feel the irritation bubbling up within him. “Do you have somewhere better to be?”

“Of course,” the man said with a yawn. “Anywhere is better than any boring old meeting.”

Clenching his fists, Steve willed himself to stay seated. “This Assembly of Chieftains has been called to address the threat of war that sits just outside our boarders,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Correction. It is a threat that sits outside your boarders,” Anthony said airily.

“That isn’t the point here,” said Wanda. “We have gathered to agree upon a course of action.” Folding her hands on the wooden table, she turned to Steve. “The Clan of Red Mists will heed your call; our forges blaze bright and our warriors are preparing for the campaign ahead, Chieftain Steven. My brother and I will lend our swords to the cause and stand beside you on the battlefield.”

“As will I!” exclaimed Thor as he slammed his open hand on the table. “My hammer will crack open the skulls of our enemies, and the battle cry of the Crowned Clan shall strike fear into the hearts of all who oppose us!”

“The Clan of the Unseeing Eye will also rise to meet our enemies with all the strength we can muster,” said Natasha.

“And you, Chieftain Anthony?” said Thor, his booming voice echoing among the trees. “What says the Iron Helm Clan?”

Anthony crossed his arms, a scowl on his face. “This is madness. These reports indicate that Promancorian troops have their sights set on White Star Clan land; they are nowhere near Iron Helm Clan territory, nor the territory of any of your clans either. Why should I care what happens to your people?” he demanded, glaring daggers at Steve.

“This is bigger than any one clan alone,” Steve replied, his blood beginning to boil. “The Promancorians are led by a man thirsty for blood and lustful of power. He has united the warring states in the south through ruthless slaughter and brute force; what makes you think that he will stop once my clan has fallen?”

Natasha crossed her legs and folded her arms across her chest. “He’s right. This new Emperor, as he calls himself, will not stop until he rules everything; Clan divisions won’t stop him from obliterating your people, unless you wish to tell us that you have decided to pledge allegiance to this Emperor?”

Anthony scoffed. “Are you mad? Of course not! I am the greatest Chieftain our clan has ever seen! I bow to no one!”

“Then why do you abstain from joining our cause?” asked Wanda.

“Be cause I see no reason to provoke the retaliation of an army which does not seek what is mine!”

“Yet,” growled Steve. “They do not seek what is yours now, but I can assure you, they will. And if we do not stop them now, then when the Promancorians are on your doorstep, there will be none left to call to your aid.”

Anthony waved his hand dismissively. “That is not a foregone conclusion.”

“Chieftain Anthony! We must stand united against this affront to our people and our way of life!” said Thor. “Victory will be had by all of us or none of us. Our oracle, Heimdall, has foreseen it!”

Anthony raised an eyebrow. “Oracle? Since when does the Crowned Clan have an oracle? I thought the powers of precognition lay with the Clan of the Unseeing Eye?”

A man stepped forward from the Crowned Clan’s party. He was tall and imposing, his wide shoulders encased by a gleaming breastplate and bare, muscular arms gave off an aura of strength. A pair of clear, gray-white eyes peered from beneath a large helmet adorned with gigantic, curved horns. “None of my forefathers have possessed this power; I am the first of the Crowned Clan to have been blessed by the All-Father with visions which foretell what is to come.”

“And you don’t dispute this?” Anthony said to Natasha.

The Chieftainess of the Clan of the Unseeing Eye merely flipped her fiery red hair over her shoulder and shrugged. “Who am I to argue with the powers that the gods deem to give or withhold? Do you claim to be privy of the counsel of the gods? But to the matter at hand, the oracles of the Unseeing Eye have also foreseen the same: together we will find victory, but without our strength combined, we will be crushed beneath the heel of conquest, one by one, until none remain.”

“Madness. All of you!” said Anthony. “I refuse to send my own people to the grave in service of another man’s problems.”

“For what reason would you doom us all?” Steve demanded, slamming his fist on the table.

Anthony leapt to his feet. “What reason? What reason?! You of all should know!” Anthony shrieked in response. “Three summers ago, there was drought; not a cloud on the horizon for the whole season, and all our crops failed. The winter that followed was even harsher, and our clan was starving. We called to the White Star Clan, begging for aid – for food and supplies to tie us through the season, and for prayers to your precious Winter Lord, to ask him to spare our lives from the bitterness of the cold. And what did we receive? ABSOLUTELY NOTHING! Not a single grain of wheat, not a single leaf of cabbage, not a single thread of linen, not a single breath – not a single whisper – to your accursed patron! We lost many, many good lives that year. So I ask you: Why should come to your aid in your time of need, when you did absolutely nothing for us when we needed you?”

Steve’s jaw flexed, and he flushed with second-hand shame. “That was the work of my predecessor; I had no control over the actions of the chieftain before me.”

“Do you think that matters?!” cried Anthony, slamming his fists onto the wooden table. “Your shallow excuses won’t bring back the lives we lost!”

“So, what, then? You would damn us all for the actions of one man? You would condemn the other clans to oblivion as punishment for what my predecessor has done to you?”

Anthony pulled himself to his full height. “Yes! I would!”

“Chieftain of the Iron Helm Clan, you accuse us of madness, and yet it is you who speaks the madness!” said Wanda.

“You sit here arguing over drops of water while the incoming tide sweeps in. Your petty clan squabbles will be drowned by the march of history, Chieftain Anthony,” said Natasha.

“They are right, Chieftain Anthony,” said Thor. “This grave matter is bigger than any one clan. I understand your difficult position; truly, I do. But we must put aside our differences and act united, else there will be nothing left to fight over. I know it is a challenge to see past your grievances, but I’m afraid the circumstances are dire enough to warrant it.”

“No. I disagree. I have nothing else to say to you people!” Anthony announced. “The Iron Helm Clan will not take part in this senselessness! You can handle this business on your own.” With that, he turned from the table, gesturing to his party to follow as he departed the meeting place.

-8-

Although the words of Heimdall’s vision and the Iron Helm Clan’s refusal weighed on his mind, Steve thought that overall, the Assembly of Chieftains had been fairly successful. After Chieftain Anthony had taken his leave, the remaining clans had spent the rest of the day strategizing and making battle plans. With the full military support of the other three clans, Steve was feeling much better about their chances of successfully defending themselves against the Promancorian armies.

Two weeks of intense battles had ensued. The warriors from the Crowned Clan, led by Thor himself, and those from the Clan of Red Mists, led by Wanda and Pietro, joined Steve on the front lines, bearing the brunt of the assaults from the main army while Natasha and her lieutenants led small raiding parties in an attempt to cripple their supply chain.

Before he knew it, the turn of the moon was arriving, and Steve hurried back to Roophoek from the front line, bearing news and two sacs full of battle trophies. He arrived in the town in the early afternoon, and after greeting the elders and updating them on the progress of the war, he went straight to the Sanctuary.

As he stepped past the threshold and into the well shaded building, Steve could feel his heart rate increasing in anticipation. Dropping the sacs of spoils at the base of the alter, he made to step onto the dais when a deep voice called out from the darkness.

“If you even think about setting your dirty, blood stained boots onto my favourite bearskin rug, I will skewer you!”

Steve stumbled back in shock. “I-I’m sorry, my lord!” he said, his eyes darting around to find the owner of that familiar voice.

“Did you not even stop to bathe before you came to the alter?” said Lord Buchanan as he stepped out from behind the nearest wooden pillar. The sound of that honey-velvet voice sent shivers down Steve’s spine.

As the days and weeks had gone by, Steve had started to question whether the previous meeting had been a figment of his imagination – a fever dream summoned by his nerves and cresting libido, but there was no denying the magnificent being that stood before him now. The Winter Lord was every ounce as breathtaking as Steve remembered – from his soft, braided hair to his icy grey ethereal eyes; from his tall, wide, imposing and muscular form to his finely crafted silver jewelry, the god exuded an unmistakable aura of power and grace.

“You reek of rancid sweat and putrid entrails.”

Steve winced. “I came straight from the battlefield, my lord! I didn’t want to delay your offerings by even a moment.”

Lord Buchanan sighed, shaking his head slightly. “Well, next time, take the time to cleanse yourself before coming to see me,” he said. “I will not have you trekking mud and innards across my floor.”

“Yes, my lord,” Steve said, feeling his face and chest flushing with shame.

“Well, clean up before you make any more of a mess,” said Lord Buchanan. He gestured to the corner of the room, where a large wooden tub filled with steaming water and a wash basin had materialized where there had been nothing. “Come. Strip. Now.”

Steve hastily complied, shedding his clothes and stepping out of his boots as quickly as he could. He only had a moment to feel embarrassed about his nakedness before he was being herded into the wooden tub, a bar of soap shoved unceremoniously into his hands.

“Cleanse yourself thoroughly; there had better not be a single speck of dirt on your body when you finish – I’ll be checking your work. You have until I finish going through the offerings you have brought me,” Lord Buchanan said sternly.

“Yes, my lord!” Steve said, hastily lowering himself into the warm water when Lord Buchanan turned away. Deciding to start with his hair, he dunked his head into the water of the bath, which was pleasantly warm. Fully submerged, Steve scrubbed his fingers through his hair and over his scalp; it had been a long time since Steve had possessed the time and spare water to afford to wash, and he could feel the dirt and grime coming loose. He scrubbed and lathered until he could not hold his breath any longer, and surfaced, wiping the streaming water from his eyes.

When he could see, Steve looked down and was surprised to find the bath water crystal clear, a light layer of steam rising from the surface. He expected the water to have turned brown from all the dirt and blood, but miraculously, it stayed clean. Shaking himself from the confusion, Steve next took the soap and passed it across his skin. Afraid to discover the kind of punishment that awaited him should he fail Lord Buchanan’s instructions, he was determined to clean every inch of his body.

As he washed, Steve spared a glance across the room, where he could hear Lord Buchanan systematically picking through the two sacs that he had brought. Lord Buchanan was crouched on the floor, sifting through the items. Most of it was comprised of armour and weaponry, collected from men who had met their end at the business end of his blade. The god seemed to be sorting everything into several neat piles. Each item was appraised with a critical eye before being categorized. At the moment, Lord Buchanan was examining a particularly well woven cape that one of the Promancorian captains had been wearing when he had been cut down. He made a sound of approval and set it aside.

Steve was just finishing up, trying to scrub the last bit of dirt from between his toes, when Lord Buchanan stood and stretched. As he turned to face Steve, the piles of armour and other offerings vanished from the floor beside him.

“These are fine offerings, Steven.”

Steve bowed his head, the water sloshing and splashing a bit with the movement. “I am pleased that you find them so, my lord.”

“I trust you have also been receiving the offerings that the elders have been leaving you?”

“Yes, I have. Are you finished bathing?”

“Almost, my lord!”

The Winter Lord’s mouth lifted into a small smile. “Very well. Finish up; I’ll get you a towel.”

Turning back to the bath, Steve hastily rinsed the remaining suds from his body and scrubbed behind his ears. When he was finished, he looked up to find a gigantic plush towel in Lord Buchanan’s hands.

“Come, let’s get you dried off.”

Steve stepped out of the bath, still fascinated by the clarity of the water, despite the entire swamp he must have dragged into the tub with him.

Immediately, Steve was enveloped by the warmest, softest material that had ever touched his skin. Blinking in surprise, Steve could only stand still as Lord Buchanan began by drying his hair, rubbing the fine material over his head until the towel was damp and his hair less so. Then, Lord Buchanan started on his body. As the towel was worked across his wet skin, beginning from his neck and shoulders, and slowly down over his chest and stomach, Steve felt his heartbeat once again quicken as inch by dry inch, his body was revealed to the warm afternoon air.

When he was finished, Lord Buchanan wrapped the material around Steve’s waist. The god was standing close, and their bodies were almost touching. “Now, let me see how well you have done,” Lord Buchanan whispered directly into Steve’s ear.

Steve could feel the flutter of Lord Buchanan’s breath as the god spoke; it sent chills running across his body and his cock twitched in response. The cool tip of the Winter Lord’s nose touched the shell of his ear like a feather, and Steve felt fingers at his hairline, the long, thick digits sliding into his damp locks. Steve’s eyes fluttered closed, and he fought to contain the moan that rose up in his throat.

The nose at his ear was soon replaced by lips as the fingers in his hair stroked across his skull; when they reached the nape of his neck, they curled into a fist, gently tugging him back to expose his neck. When cool lips and teeth found the spot just below the hinge of Steve’s jaw, the moan that had been building finally escaped into the air.

Lord Buchanan pressed their bodies together as he nipped and kissed at Steve’s neck; he could feel the lush fabric of the god’s clothes, the rough edges of his silver jewelry, and the cool touch of his bare skin against his own warm chest. Steve reflexively reached forwards, his hand settling on Lord Buchanan’s hips, his thumbs brushing against the exposed flesh above the waistband of his silken trousers. Another shiver fluttered over Steve’s body as the hand in his hair loosened and began trailing down his spine, soft fingertips brushing over every bump as they descended down to his hip. When those same fingers reached around to tease at his growing hardness, Steve whined quietly.

“I wonder,” said Lord Buchanan, “did you return to my alter with more that just the spoils of war to offer?”

“I wish to give tribute.”

Lord Buchanan hummed, and the deep vibration echoed through Steve’s chest. “I suppose the turning of the moon is upon us. You wish to renew the blessings I have bestowed upon you?”

Steve nodded.

“Very well,” he said casually as he continued to fondle Steve.

The gentle stroking coaxed more blood to gather down south, and Steve gasped. “My lord, please!” The heat was building inside him; his body flush was with arousal and the fog of pleasure had begun to settle over his mind.

“Please, what?” teased the soft voice, full of warmth. “Tell me what you desire.”

“I- I want you.”

“Mmm, yes? What do you want from me? You must be more specific, Steven,” said Lord Buchanan as he gave Steve’s fully erect cock and playful squeeze.

“I want to feel you inside me!” Steve gasped. “I want to pleasure you until your desire fills me!”

Steve could feel the catch in Lord Buchanan’s breath, and his ministrations stilled for a moment. “You are a bold one indeed. I suppose I should have learned this from our first encounter, and yet I still find myself surprised. Are you certain?”

Steve nodded. “I would beg you if I must.”

Lord Buchanan chuckled. “That’s not necessary. I would be glad to sate myself upon your body.” He stepped back, pulling Steve by the cock towards the bearskin rug. “Come.”

Steve followed, entranced by his arousal and the promise of pleasure, stepping up onto the dais and falling to he knees at Lord Buchanan’s feet. Heady desire pumped rapidly through his veins as Steve reached forward to unlace the trousers that hid Lord Buchanan’s swelling thickness. The soft fabric came apart beneath his hands, and Steve pulled them down until they pooled at Lord Buchanan’s ankles.

The sight of Lord Buchanan’s thick, heavy length once more stole the breath from Steve’s lungs. Pressing forward, he could not help but nuzzle his face into the dip in Lord Buchanan’s left hip, inhaling the god’s deep, woody-sweet scent. Steve’s fingers found the soft, velvet smooth skin of the growing erection; it was only half hard, still hanging low and heavy, and yet it was already as long as Steve himself when he was fully aroused.

Steve stroked Lord Buchanan slowly; he watched with deepening hunger as Lord Buchanan grew to his full size, filling out until he was pointing directly forward; thick, heavy, and imposing, with pulsing veins that ran like tributaries up and down the impressive length, with a clear liquid beginning to bead at the tip. It was magnificent, and Steve was utterly mesmerized. Unable to resist any longer, he opened his mouth, flicking his tongue out to collect the salty, tangy nectar before it had a chance to be wasted. A moan erupted from deep inside Steve’s chest as Lord Buchanan’s deep, salty-bitter taste cut through his senses, and he plunged forward, wrapping his lips around Lord Buchanan’s large, flared head.

Steve threw himself into the act with everything he could muster; he felt like a frenzied animal as he sucked and licked, savouring the heavy flavour as he worked his lips and tongue over the cockhead. He had only just begun, and hadn’t even started to work his way down the huge length before him, and yet Steve’s mouth was already so full. At the same time, Steve used his hands to stroke and massage Lord Buchanan’s thick shaft and full sac.

Lord Buchanan sighed, his hands gripping Steve’s broad shoulders. Steve lost himself in the pleasure, slowly working more and more of the cock into his mouth until he was halfway down and he could feel the hard flesh nudging the back of his throat. Lord Buchanan began to thrust – slow, shallow movements that had his teeth gently scraping against the soft skin and made his jaw ache from the sheer stretch, but he loved every second of it.

A particularly deep thrust triggered Steve’s reflexes, and he pulled away, coughing and sputtering.

The Winter Lord swore. “Steven, are you alright?”

“Forgive me, my lord.”

Lord Buchanan’s deep voice was full of concern. “What for?”

“I wish I could take you all the way, but…”

“Such a feat would take a great deal of practice and discipline. Do not fret; you already give me great pleasure.”

“Please, my lord, I want as much of you as I can take,” said Steve, placing his lips once more on Lord Buchanan’s tip, licking gently at the engorged head. “I don’t want you to hold back.”

The Winter Lord swore under his breath, his hands coming up to touch gently at the side of Steve’s face and the crook of his jaw. “You make such a sight,” Lord Buchanan said as he thrust back into the warmth of Steve’s mouth.

As before, he started slow, with lingering, shallow movements. With every plunge, he went a bit deeper, pushing ever more cock into Steve’s hungry mouth. Slowly, like a snowbank building up one snowflake at a time until it buried buildings in the deep recesses of winter, Lord Buchanan’s rhythm mounted until he was hammering into Steve with abandon. His hands gripped the sides of Steve’s face, holding him in place as his huge cock slammed into Steve’s throat, almost choking him

Steve looked up through wet eyes, tears streaming down his face as he watched in awe as he was filled up with Lord Buchanan’s cock. He had wrapped his arms around Lord Buchanan’s tree-trunk thick thighs and held on for his life as he had the breathe knocked from his lungs with every thrust. Steve hadn’t even touched himself, and yet he was so painfully hard, so painfully aroused by the ecstasy of being able to give such pleasure to this resplendent being.

“Ah, Steven,” Lord Buchanan breathed as his thrusts stuttered, and before Steve could react, he felt the Winter Lord’s cock deeper in his throat than he could handle, and he heaved, pulling back until only the head was in his mouth as it began to explode, spewing seed onto his tongue.

Lord Buchanan came hard, the spray instantly filling Steve’s mouth with thick, salty seed. Steve swallowed hastily, trying to consume all of it, but, as before, it was too much, too fast, and the excess spilled from the corners of his mouth, running down his chin and his throat and onto his chest. Steve kept swallowing until he felt like he had drunk the entire ocean, and only then did Lord Buchanan finally pull back.

The god swore softly, his eyes opening to unveil clear, silver irises.

“Have I pleased you, my lord?” Steve rasped, his voice rubbed raw from the abuse.

“Very much, my Steve.”

Steve sighed, falling forward to rest his face against one of Lord Buchanan’s thighs. “I’m glad,” he said.

A cool hand carded through Steve’s golden blonde hair. “You sound disappointed.”

“I… I had hoped that you would do me the honour of being the first man to breach me tonight.”

Fingers gently grasped Steve’s hair, pulling him back to look up at the god. “Who ever said that I was finished with you already? You wanted me to take pleasure in your body, and I have not yet had my fill of you.” Steve’s eyes were drawn to Lord Buchanan’s erection, which had not flagged even one bit, despite just having had a heavy release.

A push, cushioned chair had appeared in the center of the rug, and Lord Buchanan fell gracefully to sit upon it, drawing Steve naturally to settle between his open legs. “Come,” said the Winter Lord, gently pulling Steve up until he had settled on his lap, his knees hooked over each of the lord’s spread thighs, his open ass hanging open to the air, their two erections almost touching between them.

“There,” said Lord Buchanan, one hand on the small of Steve’s back to keep him in place. “Are you sure you wish to continue?” he asked.

“Yes,” Steve said, his iron resolve audible in his voice.

“Very well. I will treasure the gift of your innocence; it will be an honour to be your first, my Steven.” Lord Buchanan’s other hand cradled the back of Steve’s head as he leaned forward, his lips finding the hollow of Steve’s throat. A deep moan escaped from Steve as he felt the glide of a cool tongue against his skin. Lord Buchanan worked his way up the column of muscle until he reached Steve’s jaw. With a jolt, Steve realized that the Winter Lord was cleaning up the remnants of his own release from Steve’s face, and the man flushed deep red at the thought.

“Don’t be shy, my Steven,” he said, gently licking the spent seed from the corner of Steve’ mouth. As he did so, he took one of Steve’s hands in his and moved it down, wrapping it around both their pulsing cocks.

Steve moaned, his free hand coming up to steady himself against Lord Buchanan’s chest; he was overwhelmed the feeling of those cool, soft lips so close to his own contrasted to the steel hardness of both of them in his hand. Steve’s fingers were barely long enough to grip half way around the combined girth, and the nip of teeth at the corner of his mouth caused his hips thrust up involuntarily. The movement made his cock rub up against the length of Lord Buchanan’s own hardness, and it sent Steve’s arousal to a whole other level.

“My lord!” he gasped, thrusting again to feel the incredible glide of their flesh, slicked by the remains of Lord Buchanan’s first release.

“You are close to release, my Steven,” said Lord Buchanan. “I want to have your pleasure.”

Steve moaned loudly, the words stirring up even more desire within him as he thrust up again, the sensation setting his entire body on fire.

“That’s it,” Lord Buchanan whispered as he tilted his head. “You are so beautiful. Come, take your pleasure.”

Steve squeezed his eyes shut as he rutted his cock against Lord Buchanan’s firm abs, the ridges and dips in his stomach sending shockwaves through his body as he moved. He felt as though every muscle in his body was engaged, and Steve knew that he was only a single moment away from his climax.

“That’s it,” said Lord Buchanan, the words flowing directly over Steve’s mouth, a mere moment before Steve felt those soft, cool lips sliding against his own. Steve gasped in surprise, and Lord Buchanan took advantage of the moment to slip his tongue past Steve’s lips.

The world burst into a storm of technicolour, flooding Steve’s senses as he lost himself in the kiss – the hot, desperate press of cool skin against his own, the rough texture of Lord Buchanan’s tongue as it brushed feather-light inside him, the gossamer flutter of icy breath against his face. The kiss was ethereal and heavenly and full of desire and promise, and it sucked the breath from Steve’s lungs and sent him over the edge.

Steve’s shout was swallowed by Lord Buchanan’s lips as he climaxed. Fire burned through his veins like acid and Steve felt as though he had been plunged into a sea of lava, overloading his senses. It washed over him like waves on a beach, cresting again and again as he felt his cock pulsing, shooting his seed all over their chests and stomachs.

Eventually, when Steve felt like every last drop of energy had been wrung from his body, he finally slumped against Lord Buchanan’s rock hard body, draping himself over the god’s firm muscles and seed-stained skin. Breaking the kiss, they parted for a moment, and Steve gasped for breath, inhaling the suddenly cold air between them. With his arms around Lord Buchanan’s neck, he pressed his forehead against Lord Buchanan’s brow, panting.

The Winter Lord hummed, his deep voice rumbling in his chest. “So gorgeous,” he whispered as he tiled his face up, and their lips met again, and the passion of their kiss lightened to a light simmer. It deepened the flush on Steve’s skin, despite the dropping temperature of the air. Steve pressed close, rubbing his whole body against Lord Buchanan, feeling absolutely filthy with his seed smearing on their bodies.

“What an enthusiastic lover you are,” Lord Buchanan said quietly against Steve’s lips, the curve of his smile pressed against Steve’s own.

Steve could only moan in response as he squirmed in the taller figure’s lap. His cock was trapped between their stomachs, and each movement brough glorious friction against his over-sensitive arousal. He was beginning to soften, but he could feel the Winter Lord’s erection, still hard and full, rubbing up against his stomach, leaving a slick trail in its wake. The feeling of Lord Buchanan against him and the thought of being marked by his fluids heightened Steve’s desire and fueled his drunken stupor.

Suddenly, something cool and wet brushed up against the entrance between his legs, and Steve cried out softly in surprise, his body jerking up in response.

“Shhh,” Lord Buchanan whispered as he slotted their lips together again. “Relax.”

Steve tried to do as he was told; he didn’t flinch this time as he felt the press of a fingertip against his hole. It circled around him as Lord Buchanan’s other hand kneaded at the globe of his ass cheek, massaging and pulling it slightly open.

“Breathe,” Lord Buchanan instructed as he continued to kiss him, and soon Steve felt the finger pressing against him, a gentle but firm pressure.

“Ah!” Steve cried when he felt it enter him, his arms tightening around Lord Buchanan’s shoulders. The intruding hand had been slicked with oil, and as the single digit slid deeper into him, Steve broke from the kiss, pitching forward until his furrowed brow was tucked in the crook between Lord Buchanan’s broad shoulder and his neck. “My lord!”

“Does it hurt?”

Steve shook his head. He’d played with himself on occasion, using one, sometimes two fingers, but this was a completely different experience, and Steve was almost overwhelmed by the intimacy of even this small act. Lord Buchanan slowly probed him, and Steve couldn’t help but clamp down on the intruding finger as it in and out of his entrance.

Lord Buchanan sucked in a breath. “You are very tight, Steve,” he whispered. “You must relax if you ever hope to take me tonight; I do not wish to tear you in half.”

“I-I’m trying, my lord,” Steve said, willing his body to unclamp.

Releasing his ass, the Winter Lord stroked his other hand up and down Steve’s spine soothingly, leaving his skin cool and tingling in its wake.

Steve concentrated as hard as he could, demanding his body to bend to his will. Lord Buchanan waited so patiently, moving at a slow pace as Steve struggled. Time seemed to slow, and Steve could swear that he could feel the slow drip of an hourglass’ sand as he fought his body’s instincts.

After what felt like and eternity, Lord Buchanan placed the tip of a second finger at his entrance. “You must tell me if this hurts.”

Steve nodded.

The second fingertip pressed at his entrance, right beside the first, and Steve’s body flinched, clenching again at the threat of more intrusion. The pressure increased, the discomfort building until it was almost unbearable and Steve was about to – but with a pop, it breached him and the discomfort faded to a dull ache, and Steve gasped.

Gently, Lord Buchanan slid the second finger in, coating him entrance with oil as it sank into him. Steve was panting, beads of sweat adorning his head like a crown of perspiration. His body felt like it was in the midst of a marathon as Lord Buchanan’s second finger came to rest beside the first, both buried halfway into him.

“Are you alright, Steven?”

“Yes, my lord,” he whispered back.

“Are you certain?”

Steve nodded. Lord Buchanan’s hand was larger than his own, and the stretch of fingers made him ache more than he had ever felt with his own explorations.

“How do you feel?”

“Full, my lord.”

The Winter Lord frowned. “This does not bode well, Steven; I fear you will not be ready for me this night; you are too tight.”

“No!” Steve cried, the fear gripping his heart in a vice grip of dread. “Please! I want you…”

Lord Buchanan sighed. “If you so insist, Steven.”

Steve felt lips brush against the shell of his ear, and Lord Buchanan began moving his fingers again. He worked gently with shallow thrusts, and although he moved deeper at a snail’s pace, Steve’s body still quivered at every infinitesimal increment. It continued in this way, the Winter Lord ever so slowly breaching deeper, until he was buried fully with both fingers.

Moaning deeply, Steve pressed closer. “I need… please, I need to feel you inside me, Lord Buchanan,” he whined.

“Hush, my Steven. Have patience,” the Winter Lord replied, and Steve felt the tip of a third finger at his entrance.

As he had with the first two, Lord Buchanan pressed it against him until it slipped inside. Steve sucked in his breath at the increased stretch, gritting his teeth and squeezing his eyes shut as the third finger was slowly worked into him. He felt as though his nerves had been strung taught, his whole body hyper-sensitive to every twitch and shift of Lord Buchanan’s hand. Discomfort swirled deep in Steve gut at the intense stretch, at being pushed to his very limits and beyond.

Lord Buchanan thrust gently with his hand; Steve could feel every callous and ridge of the thick digits rubbing up against his soft, delicate insides. On one particularly slow push, Lord Buchanan crooked his fingers, and Steve felt them bush against his inner walls, and-

Steve felt as though he had been struck by lightning; it was like every nerve in his body had fired all in the same moment, causing each and every fibre of his body to seize, and the overwhelming explosion had shorted out his brain. A high pitched scream was ripped from his throat, and Steve threw his head back as his awareness of the world narrowed down in one instant to the feeling of those fingers inside him, and nothing else.

A slick fingertip caressed that enthralling spot inside him again, sending another intense jolt of pleasure racing through his bones. Steve’s cock, limp and soft from his previous erection, twitched with interest, and he could feel the blood beginning to gather once again.

“L-Lord Buchanan!” Steve gasped.

A chuckle greeted him in reply. “Have you never found your pleasure spot before?”

“No!”

“Then I am pleased to introduce you to this small bundle inside you,” said Lord Buchanan, prodding gently against it again; Steve’s muscles twitched uncontrollably at the sensation.

Struggling for breath, Steve could only hold on for his life, his body convulsing from the pleasure as Lord Buchanan assaulted the spot inside him. With every touch, ever gentle sweep against it, Steve moaned, his cock growing with interest as the pleasure outstripped the discomfort.

When a fourth finger touched his entrance, Steve’s body tensed again, his short, broken fingernails scraping against Lord Buchanan’s shoulders as he cried out softly. The fingers continued to stroke gently against the spot of pleasure inside him as the fourth finger slowly joined the other three.

After what seemed like an eternity, all four fingers were gently moving inside. Steve was bathed in sweat, gasping for breath and scrabbling for purchase against Lord Buchanan’s solid body. He felt wrung out, exhausted from the assault pf pleasure, combined with the incredible stretch. He had never been so full, so physically pushed to his limit in his entire life. It was both the most terrifying and yet thrilling sensation he had ever experienced, and Steve knew that it wasn’t over yet, for Lord Buchanan’s girth surpassed even that of four fingers.

Slowly, long fingers retreated from him, and Steve felt the pain of the loss almost physically. Not a moment after the fingers were gone, that Steve felt the blunt head of Lord Buchanan’s cock at his entrance. It was wide and rounded, wet and slick.

“I do not wish to harm you,” Lord Buchanan said as he began to withdraw his fingers.

“You won’t.”

A hand rubbed circles into the small of his back. “It is possible.”

Steve shook his head. “I trust you.”

Lord Buchanan kissed the side of his head, and said nothing.

The tip pushed up against him, one hand on Steve’s hip, holding him in place as Lord Buchanan sought entry. It took a couple tries, the large cock slipping to the side several times, before he was able to finally breach his entrance; when it did, Steve felt the air being knocked out of his lungs. Tears stung the corners of his eyes and he arched his back from the pain of the intrusion. It was unlike anything he had ever experienced before; Lord Buchanan was so thick, so hard, and Steve felt so incredibly full – and yet this was only the head, the beginning of what was to come, and Steve was sure that he was going to be ripping in half, but oh wouldn’t that be such a delicious way to meet one’s end?

Breathing heavily, Steve clawed for breath as his body tried to violently reject the invasion, and Steve found himself once again fighting his every instinct.

Distantly, Steve heard Lord Buchanan swear. “You’re so tight,” he breathed.

Thankfully, Lord Buchanan held still as Steve struggled, his strong arms wrapped protectively around him, with large hands resting comfortingly against his skin. Leaning forwards, the Winter Lord showered Steve with small kisses, whispering soft words of praise into his skin. Those plump lips fluttered against the tendons on his neck, across his jaw, his cheekbones, his nose, finally coming to his mouth, capturing Steve in a soft, languid kiss.

Pressing forward, Steve deepened the kiss, reveling in the contrast between the delicious passion of their kiss and the sharp pain of penetration. His own cock was trapped once again between their bodies, the shifting of skin stimulating his oversensitive organ again as desire and discomfort fought within him.

Slowly, Steve felt his body adjusting to the thickness. When he felt he could wait no longer, Steve pushed down, impaling himself onto Lord Buchanan’s massive weapon. Even with all the preparation and lubrication, Steve felt his hole burning with pain as he sank down, taking another finger’s width into his body before the pain peaked, and Steve flinched.

“Stop,” Lord Buchanan said into their kiss, his hand pressing into his hips to still his movements. “Steven, you cannot continue.”

“But I want more; I want all of you!” Steve gasped, tears streaming down his face from both the pain and his failure.

Lord Buchanan shook his head. “One day, when your body is ready, but not now. You have already pushed yourself well beyond the limits of what your body is capable of handling. There will be lasting damage if you go past this point.”

“I-” but Steve’s words were swallowed by another kiss.

“No. This is an order, Steven. This is as much as you take today.”

Steve was silent.

“Do not be ashamed, Steven. You have already far exceeded my expectations. You are inexperienced, your body unprepared. With more practice, you will be able to fulfill your desires. Have patience; that day will come.”

A hand came up to cup his face, tilting it up.

“Look at me, Steven.”

Steve blinked away the tears from his eyes, gazing at Lord Buchanan. In that moment, he felt so small. All his life had been a struggle – a struggle against illness, against famine and hunger, against bullies and raiders and thieves, against a world that seemed hell-bent on sending him to the grave.

“I just want to be yours,” Steve whispered.

Lord Buchanan stroke a thumb against his cheek. “But, dear one, you already are mine.”

Steve felt him pull out of him a fraction before thrusting gently back in; throwing his head back, Steve gasped as the twin pleasure and pain spiked through his body.

“You already belong to me,” Lord Buchanan said as he repeated the motion. Steve felt the thickness, every vein and every ridge as it rubbed against the walls of his body, and it sent sparks flying. “Your body, your soul; everything that you are, everything that you have. You are mine,” he said, punctuating it with another thrust.

Lord Buchanan had only but a small fraction of his cock buried into his ass, and yet it was able to give Steve the most intoxicating pleasure that he had ever felt in his entire life. Every ounce of his body was singing with it, lit up by the zing of passion, fringed with a sharp sting of pain, and the mixture was more potent than an entire cellar of distilled spirits. Steve rode Lord Buchanan’s erection, basking in the fullness, the stretch, the slide, the feeling of having another inside him, penetrating him.

“You feel so good,” Lord Buchanan moaned softly. “So tight… Yes, just like that,” he said, his shallow thrusts picking up in speed. “Touch yourself,” he commanded, “show me how much you want this.”

Powerless to deny it, Steve wrapped his hand around his own erection. The touch was electrifying, and it amplified everything that he was feeling.

“Are you close?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Good.”

“I don’t want to finish yet!”

“Fear not,” Lord Buchanan said with a grunt. “I’m close too. We’ll finish together.”

Steve moaned, “Yes! I want that!”

It didn’t take long for Steve to bring himself to the edge, his nerves had been rubbed raw, scraped and eroded until he was hypersensitive and exposed. Every touch, every scent, every taste, overpowering him.

Steve came for the second time with a whimper, his hand flying up and down his shaft as he spilled his seed between them again. He clenched, riding the waves once more like a small boat in a raging storm, cresting and falling and cresting, again and again. He heard Lord Buchanan moan, the deep, rumbling sound was like thunder, vibrating in the air, and then he was riding the high right there beside Steve. He could feel the Winter Lord’s orgasm, the way his hard muscles tensed, his body curling around Steve’s, enveloping him with his whole presence. He could feel Lord Buchanan bursting inside him, his hot seed scalding his insides as his powerful shots penetrated deep inside him, filling him up as Lord Buchanan continued to thrust through his pleasure. Steve felt as though they moved in unison, their bodies sating themselves in synchronized rhythm as their joint orgasm beat through their bodies.

As his climax ebbed, Steve found himself drifting, his head among the clouds, like flying through a dream.

He did not know how long it took before he floated back into awareness, the world fading into focus one drop at a time. He was wrapped up in Lord Buchanan’s arms, his ass still full of Lord Buchanan’s cock, leaking and wet and used and feeling extremely satisfied. His body ached, and Steve felt a bone deep exhaustion that he had never felt before, as if he had been pushed through a month’s work of training in the span of a single hour.

“Steven,” called a deep voice.

His eyes blinked open, and he found himself face to face with Lord Buchanan’s bright, silver eyes.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes.”

Lord Buchanan smiled, soft and warm.

Without thinking, Steve leaned forward to steal a kiss. He lingered, basking in the moment. He wished he could stay here in Lord Buchanan’s arms forever. If he did not allow himself to think, he could pretend that perhaps it could be true.

-8-

Steve sat upon the log with a thump, tossing his shield and sword to the ground beside him. His body ached from the rigors of battle, his muscles and joints protesting from the strain. The warmth and smoke from the fire in front of him warded off the summer insect, which would otherwise have been happy to pester and bit him all night long. All around him, the warriors of the White Star Clan and the Clan of Red Mists were settling into camp after a long, hard fought day.

The Promancorians had been dancing along the edge of their boarders for days now, and they knew that an assault had been imminent. It had been a long, drawn out clash, but in the end, the Children of the North had successfully held off the enemies, and the Promancorians had called a retreat as the sun began to brush the edge of the horizon.

The clatter of a quiver of arrows brought Steve’s attention up, just in time to see Pietro slump onto the log across from him, Wanda following closely behind. They were still wrapped in their leather armour, customarily dyed deep red, now streaked with mud and drying blood. There was a hollow look in both their eyes, and Steve could tell that the day weighed heavy on their hearts.

“How are you feeling?” Steve asked.

Two pairs of dark eyes looked upon him.

“We’re fine,” said Pietro, his voice clipped.

“It was a hard day,” Steve said. He moved onto the log beside them, and placed a hand on Wanda’s shoulder. Although the woman was younger than Steve by several years, she had been chieftainess for more than twice as long as him. Even still, he could tell that they were both unaccustomed to the strain of war.

The Clan of Red Mists presided over land that was sandwiched between two other clans and the north sea, and had a very small boarder that was exposed to outsiders. Though they still fought off pirates and raiders, they faced considerably less military conflict than Steve’s clan did. The siblings were both trained warriors, and expert in their skills, but they had not yet developed the endurance to fight day in and day out, and Steve could tell that it was wearing on them.

“Thanks for having our back today,” Wanda said, looking at her hands. “When that lanceman flanked us, I didn’t think we had a chance.”

Steve squeezed her shoulder in what he hoped was a comforting gesture. “I should be thanking you too; you both saved me from a few perilous situations as well. You fought today,” he said, looking from Wanda to Pietro, meeting the young man’s gaze. “We claimed an important victory. You should be proud of yourselves.”

Some of the fire in Pietro’s eyes flickered out, and he slumped a bit. “Thanks.”

“Chieftainess!”

All three turned to find a man approaching, dressed in the loose-fitting robes of a priest. “You’re back!”

“Kurt!” said Wanda as she stood. “Is something wrong?”

The man shook his head, and his long, dark hair whipped gently through the air as he did so. “No, ma’am, nothing wrong, but if you have a moment, might I speak to you?”

“Of course, whatever you need,” said Wanda, and Pietro rose to join her. “Thank you, Steve,” she said, turning back to him.

Steve waved off the thanks. “We are a team; it’s what we do.”

Wanda smiled. “A team. Yes.”

Steve returned her smile. “Rest well; I think there will be a break in the fighting after today’s battle, so take the opportunity to restore your strength.”

“We will,” said Wanda, nodding.

With a wave goodbye, the siblings departed.

Having gathered some of his strength, Steve grabbed his gear and rose as well, making his way to his tent. It was pitched in the centre of the encampment, surrounded by the tents of the other Howlies and the rest of the White Star Clan’s forces. He was relieved that the Promancorians had not waited any longer before launching their attack on this part of the boarder.

The phase of the moon was turning soon, and Steve was anxious to make the pilgrimage back to Sanctuary of the Winter Lord. The blessings that he had received had helped him on the battlefield; more than once, Steve was convinced that he because of Lord Buchanan’s protection, he had walked out of an encounter with his life when ordinarily he would not have survived. Steve owed his life to the Winter Lord several times over, and if he was going to see this war to its conclusion, he needed to retain use of these blessings. Admittedly, he was also looking forward to another chance to couple with Lord Buchanan.

After their first coupling, Lord Buchanan had given Steve a set of finely polished stone ornaments. They were oblong objects, with a gentle rounded point at one end which thickened along its length, ending in a bulb from with a stem and a flared base emerged. The smallest of the set was about the length of a writing quill and about as thick as a sword hilt; each one increased in length and in girth, with the biggest one being similar in size and dimension to Lord Buchanan’s anatomy.

Steve had been instructed to practice, to train his body carefully and slowly, and he had taken to the task as seriously as he had with sword training. He had been diligent in his practice for the last month. Each night since then, under the cover of darkness, he had lain on his bedding, with a jar oil and the set of stone obelisks. He was making good progress, and he was eager to see how much he had improved since their first intimacy. Just thinking about the feeling of being full of Lord Buchanan, of surrendering his body and soul, of being cradled in those strong arms and praised by that deep voice – arousal began to stir inside him, and he could not wait.

Steve was so distracted by his thoughts that he didn’t notice the boy at his tent until he was upon the entrance. He was surprised to find Peter hovering anxiously at the closed tent flap, his riding coat gripped nervously in his hands.

“Peter?”

“Chieftain!” the boy squeaked, sketching a deep bow. As he straightened, Peter looked up with wide, adoring eyes. His long, wavy hair was wind-swept, his face streaked with dirt.

“What are you doing here?”

“I come bearing an urgent message,” he said, the words tumbling quickly from his mouth. “For you.”

Something about the way Peter said it made him wary, and Steve looked about them, checking to see if they were in danger of being spied upon. “Very well. Come inside; I don’t want to be overheard.” Pulling the flap aside, he ushered the boy into his large tent.

Closing the flab behind him, Steve tossed his weapons aside and made to light a candle. Once there was light, he settled on the stump seat in the centre.

“What is it?” he said, pitching his voice low and quiet.

“The Chieftainess of the Clan of the Unseeing Eye has called a war council,” Peter said, leaning in and whispering. “The chieftains and chieftainesses are requested to meet her at the join where the River Breuckelen meets the waters of the River Jersey in three days time.”

Steve paled. The appointed meeting place was to the south east, in the opposite direction of Roophoek, and a hard ride from where they were encamped. “Did she say why?”

Peter shook his head. “No, but on my way here, I heard rumour that warriors from the Iron Helm Clan were reported to be on the move.”

Steve’s stomach plummeted, and he swore under his breath. Standing, he ran a dirty hand through his hair.

What was he to do? This was an important meeting. Without more information, it was hard to say what the Iron Helm Clan was up to. Were they moving against them? Or did they plan to finally join the cause? And the Promancorian armies, after their defeat today, would likely be falling back to regroup and strategize, and so it would be a good time for the chieftains to work on their own counter-strategies as well.

But the trip would prevent Steve from visiting Lord Buchanan’s alter to make offerings, and more importantly, to give his tribute to renew the blessings for another mooncycle.

Steve began to pace the length of his tent, trying to figure out what to do.

There was no way that he could miss this war council, nor could he afford to be late. But if he went, there was a chance that the Promancorians would strike soon after their deliberations were over, and Steve would be plunging into another campaign without Lord Buchanan’s protection.

“Sir?”

The quiet voice interrupted Steve’s thoughts, and he turned to find Peter looking upon him with uncertain eyes.

“Shall I go?” he asked.

“No; please wait a moment,” Steve said, trying to come to a decision.

He could possibly send the Howlies to the meeting in his place; technically, the position of Second and Third existed for this reason – to act in place of the chieftain if they were occupied elsewhere. He trusted his team, and they knew him well, and knew what decisions he was likely to make. But Steve was hesitant to miss the meeting – he had not held this position for very long, and he did not want to develop a reputation among the other leaders for shirking his responsibilities.

It seemed that there was no choice but to attend the war council.

Steve rubbed his jaw, and the build up of stubble scraped against his calloused palm.

It meant that he would have to delay his visit to the sanctuary, and that lay heavily on his mind. There must be something, something that he could-

Suddenly, Steve recalled Elder Erskine’s words, the night he stepped foot inside that hallowed building for the first time.

He spun around to face Peter, an idea already solidifying in his mind.

“Peter,” he said.

The boy in question straightened at the sound of his name. “Yes, sir?”

Steve had known Peter since he was but a young child, and the boy had looked up to him since then, trailing after him like a shadow. “Peter, I have an extremely important mission for you,” he said, placing his hands firmly on the boy’s shoulders.

Peter had would be sixteen when the seasons turned, and if not for this war, he would have just started his sword training – a thing that Peter had been eagerly awaiting for many years now, if only to follow in Steve’s footsteps.

The boy’s soft brown eyes held such admiration and adoration, that Steve knew his faith and loyalty were unwavering and absolute. “Anything! You can trust me!” he said enthusiastically.

Steve gave a small smile. “I know. You are the only person I can ask to carry out this mission,” he said.

Peter beamed. “I won’t let you down!”

-8-

Steve rode into the encampment side by side with Wanda and Pietro, who had received the summons the same day that Steve had. The rest of the Howlies and a small band of warriors from the Clan of Red Mists rode close behind. Steve could feel the apprehension in his body – his shoulders were squared and his jaw clenched. They had seen the clan banners as they passed through the camp grounds, and all of them had seen the section flying the golden colour of the Iron Helm Clan.

Word must have travelled faster than their horses, for when they reached the main parade ground, they were met by Natasha.

“Greetings, Steven. Wanda. Pietro.”

“Natasha, greetings,” he replied as he dismounted his horse.

“Are we late?” asked Wanda as she landed on the ground. “We are the last to arrive.”

Natasha shook her head. “No, but worry not; you have had the farthest to travel,” she said as she approached them, clasping arms with Wanda, then Steve in greeting.

“Has everyone been waiting?” Steve said gruffly, trying to disguise his anxiety behind a burly façade.

“No. Thor just arrive last night, and his group is still getting settled. Go ahead and set up camp; we’ll meet tonight after sundown.”

“Will do,” said Wanda, as she and Pietro signalled to their warriors.

The delegation from the Clan of Red Mists broke off to find a suitable place to set up, leaving Steve to lead his own delegation to do the same. After some searching, they found an unoccupied clearing, and the rest of the day was spent putting up tents and arranging fire pits. Steve supped with the Howlies as they sat around a camp fire, eating a meal of roasted meat and bread.

“What do you think the Iron Helm Clan wants?” asked Morita from beside him.

Steve shrugged. “Who knows.”

“Their hot headed chieftain is a wild card, for sure,” said Dugan.

Steve looked up from his plate. “You’ve met him?”

“Sure, once,” Dugan replied. “Gabe and I ran into him a couple years ago, right?”

Gabe nodded. “We were running some thieves off our lands. They had been persistent, so we harried them further than we normally would. Ended up on the outskirts of Iron Helm territory and ran into his hunting party.”

“Almost had a bad time; they thought we were spies from the south,” Dugan added.

“We were lucky that his advisor was with them. What was his name?” asked Gabe.

“Jarvis.”

“Right. Saved our hides, that Jarvis fellow. Good head on his shoulders. But the chieftain – hoo boy. Shoots first, asks questions later, and doesn’t often listen to reason.”

“Sounds about right,” said Falsworth from across the fire. “His reputation is well deserved.”

“Yeah,” said Steve, looking back into the dancing flames. He’d gotten a taste of that temper and personality at the first assembly, and he didn’t like the prospect of another.

The men talked around him as they finished their meal, but Steve didn’t join the conversation; his mind was too preoccupied with worry. When the last edge of the sun disappeared below the horizon, Steve made his way to the center of the camp, where a grand tent had been pitched.

When Steve entered the tent, he was greeted by a booming voice.

“Steven! Well met, friend!”

The enthusiasm was infectious, and Steve couldn’t help but smile, despite his nerves. “Greetings, Thor, good to see you well,” he said as he was swept up into a bear hug.

“Wanda was just telling me about your conquests on the battlefield! You appear a mighty warrior! Perhaps I have finally found someone who can match me in the arena! We must have a duel, once this mess is over!”

Steve laughed. “It would be an honour, Thor.”

The tall man grinned. Even in the midst of summer, Thor was dressed in decadent furs, but the outfit gave him an air of authority. His long, dark blonde hair hung loose about his shoulders, and Steve thought the chieftain stuck a handsome figure. “It will be a legendary test of strength, unlike any other!” he said jovially.

Looking around, Steve found the interior nicely appointed. This camp had been the base of operations for the Crowned Clan, and Thor had decorated the meeting tent with furs and dyed linens. The space was lit by a myriad of candles, some perched on low crates lit, and some placed in holders upon a large table in the centre of the tent; the table was littered with papers and five chairs were arranged around it, one of which housed Wanda’s lithe figure, with Pietro standing at her shoulder.

“Wanda, Pietro,” Steve said in greeting as he took a seat beside them.

Both twins smiled. “Steven,” said Wanda.

“Long time no see,” Pietro said with a smirk.

“Looks like we’re waiting on two more,” said Thor as he sat on Wanda’s other side. “It shouldn’t be too long now.”

“Yes,” said Steve. “How goes the campaign here on the eastern front?”

Thor frowned. “Not bad, but could be better.” He pulled a map closer to the three of them. “The Promancorians have been on the move,” he said, pointing to a spot on the parchment.

Wanda and Pietro both leaned in as Thor launched into a detailed account of the victories and losses his warriors had survived since they last spoke. Steve loved tactics and excelled at strategy; he was trying to teach the twins as much as he knew, and they were both proving to be astute students. The four of them became easily engrossed in the discussion, and Steve found his mind settling down somewhat as the practical side of his brain took over the technical talk.

He did not know how long the four of them spent on the topic, but the opening of the tent flap interrupted Pietro mid-sentence. All four of them looked up to see Natasha entering the room.

“Sorry for the tardiness,” she said. The chieftainess was dressed in loose fitting clothes – a dark tunic and robes, trimmed and tied with red linen. In the short time that he had known her, Steve knew that she was a deadly friend who took no chances. He didn’t doubt that she wore leather armour underneath the seemingly casual clothes, and probably had more weapons on her person than he could count. “I’d like to introduce our special guest for the evening,” said Natasha.

Stepping aside, she revealed another person standing in the entrance. It was a tall woman, looking elegant but regal in her shining steel armour. The gleaming, spotless plates were painted in gold and edged in red, and a sheathed sword hung from her belt. Her face, illuminated in the candlelight, was as pale as fresh curds and though she looked gentle, her eyes held a glint of determination and ferocity. Her long, summer-berry-jam blonde hair pulled back high on her head by a set of golden ties and woven into a thick braid which hung loose down to her hips.

“I present Lady Virginia, of House Potts. She comes as a representative of the Iron Helm Clan.”

“Please,” said the woman, her voice soft but unyielding. “Call me Pepper.”

Thor rose from his head. “Greetings, Pepper!” he said, throwing his arms wide. “We welcome into our midst!”

Wanda, Pietro, and Steve all nodded in agreement.

“Come, sit! I sense we have much to discuss,” Thor said, gesturing to the two remaining seats at the table.

“Thank you,” said the women as they took their places.

“What brings you to the battlefront?” Pietro asked.

The newcomer sighed, and if the situation had not been so dire, Steve might have chuckled at how dramatic it was.

“I recognize that my husband is a flawed man. I love him dearly, but sometimes I wonder if Tony’s true calling lies elsewhere in life. I understand the predicament faced by our people, and the severity of the times. Since my husband is too stubborn to do so, I have taken it upon myself to lead the warriors of the Iron Helm Clan in his place. I have brought with me two regiments of soldiers, who have sworn their loyalty to me and to this cause. I hope that we are not too late, and that, together, we may triumph over our enemies in this time of danger.”

Steve blinked. This was absolutely the last thing he could have imagined. If true, it would be a huge boon – fresh warriors and reinforcements would be of immense help against the invading armies. And on top of that, Steve felt a glimmer of hope flared to life – this might be enough satisfy the condition of cooperation among the five clans, and would hopefully avoid the disaster foretold by the oracles.

But Steve was wary – as the freshest chieftain of the bunch, Steve had not yet had the opportunity to become acquainted with his peers. He was unfamiliar with the current politics between, and so he was playing from a disadvantaged position in the arena where he felt the most out of depth.

Steve found himself turning to the other chieftains, watching their reactions for guidance. Presumably, Natasha was aware of the situation before the meeting had been called, and she looked satisfied and confident. Thor bore a wide grin, his eyes alight with enthusiasm. Wanda looked pensive, but not worried, while her brother looked unconvinced.

“You kindle a great hope with your words,” Steve said carefully.

Pepper nodded gravely. “It is my wish to do our part in this fight,” she said. “Natasha has updated me on the progress of the war, and she had suggested some ideas on where the Iron Helm Clan forces can be of use. Tell me wherever and however you require my aid; we are eager and willing to do our part.”

Thor nodded. “Very well. Before we make any decisions, I want a full picture of what the Promancorians have been doing. I was just telling these three about the movements of the eastern forces we have been fighting here; Wanda, Steven, Pietro, why don’t you update us on the movements on the western front, and then we can formulate a plan from there?”

-8-

The wind whistled through Peter’s hair, cutting through his clothes and whipping at his skin as his horse galloped along the worn road. He had been riding hard for the whole day, trying to make it back to Roophoek as quickly as his horse could carry him. His heart was beating wildly in his chest as he traveled, and he tried not to overthink the mission he had been sent to complete.

When the chieftain had chosen Peter for this task, his whole body had sung with joy. All he had ever wanted was to show Steve that he was trustworthy – that he was not just some nuisance kid who tagged along wherever the man went – that he was capable of contributing, and not a burden. This opportunity to prove himself was the moment he had been praying for, and it was exhilarating to have the chieftain’s trust.

But a part of him was also terrified of letting the man down; Peter had waited so long for this chance, and the thought of failure was crippling.

Anxious to complete the task, Peter had pushed hard to make good time. He was the fastest rider in the whole clan, and yet he felt the need to hasten. When the rooftops of the town came into view, a sense of relief swept through him, and it wasn’t long before he was at the outskirts of Roophoek. Slowing to a trot, Peter wove his way through the buildings on the outskirts of the settlement.

It was twilight, and the sun had just dipped below the horizon. Everyone would be preparing to turn in for the night, and Peter didn’t want to disturb anyone, or worse yet, draw attention to himself. If anyone got word that he had returned from the front lines, he would be pulled into a throng of people wanting to hear the latest from the front lines.

Peter successfully navigated his horse around the town, finding Elder Erskine’s cottage at the base of the hill which overlooked town. Dismounting his horse, Peter apprached, knocking quietly on the door.

“Peter?” Elder Erskine said with surprise when he opened the door. “What are you doing here?” His face suddenly turned grave. “What’s happened?”

“Nothing! Nothing bad has happened.”

Erskine visibly deflated with relief. “Oh. I see. Then, do you have a message for me?”

Peter shook his head. “No, but the chieftain sent me to place offerings from the battlefield at the alter of the Winter Lord, and I need the key to the Sanctuary.”

The elder rubbed his chin. “Ah. Very well. Hold on a moment.” The man disappeared into the house, and after a few moments, returned with a large iron key. “Bring it back in the morning, and guard it with your life.”

“Yessir!” Peter said, giving a deep bow.

“Goodnight, Peter.”

“Goodnight, sir!” Peter said, and the door closed firmly.

Peter took the reins of his horse, and, leading her along, they made their way up the small path which led to the top of the hill. At the gates of the sanctuary, Peter unclipped the saddle bags laden with cargo and pulled them to the front of the door. He let his horse wander, knowing that she was well trained enough to stay within eyesight of the building. She deserved to have the freedom to graze on the wild grass that grew upon the hill and to rest after the long and hard ride.

Unlocking the large iron padlock, Peter worked it free. Pushing open the doors, the boy hold his breath as the sacred building was slowly revealed to him. In the dim light of the fresh night, it was hard to see. Faint light from the moon and stars streamed in through the cracks in the closed window, and the area was shrouded in darkness.

Tentatively, Peter stepped over the threshold and into the sacred place, pulling the saddlebags with him. The quiet, cool summer air was eerie, and Peter felt gooseflesh erupting across his skin. Closing and bolting the door closed behind him, Peter fumbled his way to the nearest window, and after some fiddling, was able to open it.

A sea breeze blew in through the opening, rustling Peter’s hair as he looked out over the village and the beach. The view from up here was lovely, and he wanted to savour this rare opportunity. After a moment, Peter turned back. It was still hard to see, but he could now make out the tall forms of the columns that ran the length of the building, and the shape of what he though must be the alter at the far end.

Hauling up the bags, Peter made his way to the back, past the fire pit and the pillars, until he reached the raised platform. He was about to step onto the wooden dais when he remembered Steve’s warning about his shoes. Hastily, he removed his muddy boots, placing them aside, before stepping up.

The centre of the platform was dominated by the large, imposing alter. Mesmerized by the sight, Peter found himself drawn to it. His fingers grazed the polished marble surface, and his eyes found the carved icon in the middle. Peter was awestruck by the power and confidence that was captured in the sculpture, and it was only after several minutes that he realized he had been staring, when there was work to be done.

Peter backed up until his feet found the lush fur rug, where he promptly fell to his knees.

“My Lord Buchanan, Guardian of Winter, Master of the Moon, and protector of our people, I come bearing gifts from the warfront. I hope that these offerings may please you, and I pray for the protection of our people as we continue to defend our lands from those who would wish to destroy us.”

Carefully, Peter began to place the items from the laden bags onto the alter. After every victory, all the warriors had walked among the fallen soldiers, looting the bodies for anything and everything valuable. Most of the spoils were taken by the clansmen – iron for smelting armour and weapons, jewelry to keep or to sell, and food to be consumed – but a percentage of everything had been set aside to be used for offerings. Most of the stuff Peter had been tasked with transporting were pieces of armour – breastplates, greaves, gauntlets, helmets, and the like – but there were several pieces of jewelry among the items as well – finely crafted chains in silver or gold, rings, bracelets, and more, some plain, others inset with precious stones.

When Peter was finished, the alter was overflowing, and he could no longer see the statue of the Winter Lord upon it.

The first part of his mission complete, Peter knelt once again on the fur rug.

The second part of his mission, and arguably, the most important part, made his heart flutter violently against his ribcage. From his pocket, he produced a carefully wrapped package, one that Steve had given him that afternoon in the tent, away from prying eyes.

Gingerly, Peter unwrapped the cloth, revealing a delicately painted bowl, just as the chieftain had described it would be, and as he bent to place it on the floor, Peter could hear nothing but the heavy pounding of blood rushing through his ears.

-8-

Peter collapsed on his side, panting and sweaty, struggling to breathe as the thrilling, heady rush of his orgasm subsided, taking all of the adrenaline with it. His eyes, half-lidded, threatened to fall closed. He could feel the cool air on his sticky, wet hands as they began to dry. He was still half hard, and a small part of his brain could not believe what he had actually just done, but most of his senses were still swamped with the fading intensity of his ecstasy. Measuring time by the rhythm of his breathing, Peter’s mind began wander, hazy with the afterglow of pleasure.

“What do you think you’re doing?” a deep, rich voice said from the darkness.

A jolt of terror shot through Peter’s body, and his slowing heartbeat skyrocketed once again. Bolting up, Peter’s wide eyes searched the dark room for the source of it.

“Only the Chieftain and the Elders may set foot upon this holy ground; for what reason do you trespass here?” the voice said.

“I-I have every right to be here!” Peter said, his heart in his throat. “I was sent by the chieftain himself, to perform a sacred duty.” Still unable to locate the owner of the voice, Peter clenched hands anxiously into fists. “It is you who is trespassing!”

Movement in the shadows drew his eye, and Peter turned to find a tall, broad figure emerging from the darkness. “Is that so? How can I be trespassing when it is I who owns this place?” the deep voice said.

The stranger stepped into a beam of moonlight, which illuminated his pale, wide face. The man had a strong jawline, dusted with a short beard, and bright silver eyes. Long, dark brown hair framed his high cheekbones, and a silver crown adorned his head.

Peter blinked, falling back on his bare ass, his mouth gaping like a landed fish.

The man – no, the god – chuckled. “Now tell me, young one, why would Steve send such an innocent, wholesome young man into my clutches?”

“I… I… He…”

Lord Buchanan chuckled again, the deep rumbling sound causing Peter’s insides to stir once more. Kneeling down, the towering god came face to face with him. Gently, he grasped one of Peter’s soiled hands. “Ah, I see. He sent you to do his dirty work for him,” he said with a smile.

Peter’s heart stopped when Lord Buchanan leaned in, sniffing briefly at his hand before a firm tongue darted out to lick at his long, slender fingers. An involuntary moan passed his lips, his eyes fluttering closed as the cool, strong muscle was joined by a pair of firm lips, sucking the remaining seed from his hand.

“Hmmm, yes. A worthy tribute.”

“Lord Buchanan!” Peter choked.

A soft laugh. “I’m sorry, young one; I was overeager.” The lips and tongue withdrew from Peter’s fingers. A moment later, he felt the brush of a knuckle against his face, and a large hand came to cradle the back of his head.

Opening his eyes, Peter found himself looking directly into Lord Buchanan’s silver eyes, which seemed to glow faintly in the starlight.

“I can sense the fear in your heart,” the Winter Lord said quietly, his cool breath ghosting over Peter’s face. “You have been brave this night, young one. There is no reason to be afraid.”

A light kiss was pressed into his forehead, and Peter’s heart fluttered. “T-Thank you, my lord.”

Lord Buchanan smiled. “Steven has chosen well. I am most pleased with the tribute.”

“W-What does it mean?” Peter blurted. Ever since he had been tasked with this duty, he had been curious to know what it was for. The chieftain had not explained why the ritual was necessary, only that it had to be done. He had never heard of such a thing before, and he had been too nervous to ask why at the time.

“Transience is the law of this world, and all things fade, with time. But this tribute means that, for now, some things will not.”

“I don’t… I don’t understand.”

“Worry not, young one. I have a feeling that one day, you will. But for now, your work is finished. You may stay here for the night.”

“M-My lord?”

“You have traveled far, you are tired, and there are none left awake who can attend to your needs. Rest here. I will watch over you.”

Lord Buchanan made a gesture towards the hearth with his hand, and suddenly, a roaring fire sprang to life. The warmth of the flames drove away the lingering chill of the night, and suddenly, Peter found himself wrapped in a light blanket. Blinking, Peter felt an immense feeling of exhaustion wash over him all at once, and he lay back down on the fur rug. He could feel Lord Buchanan’s fingers carding gently through his hair, and he felt an incredible sense of peace settle around him.

Peter’s eyes began to droop, and he was so tired that he almost missed it when Lord Buchanan spoke again. “I will be here when you wake, but for now, sleep well.”

-8-

Peter was awoken by the warmth of morning sunlight striking his face, and the familiar feeling of fingers brushing through his hair.

“Good morning, young one,” a deep voice said quietly.

Stretching, Peter blinked. He found himself still wrapped in the light blanket from the night before, and still nude underneath. “Good morning, Lord Buchanan,” he said, turning onto his back.

Looking up, he could see the Winter Lord leaning over him. In the bright light of the morning sun, he could see more clearly the stature of the god who had come to him last night. Lord Buchanan had a wide, strong figure; he wore a fur-lined cape about his shoulders, but his chest and arms were bare, showing off large, firm muscles. Peter’s sleep addled brain belated wondered what it would be like to touch every inch of the glorious skin on display.

“Did you sleep well, young one?”

“Yes, my lord,” Peter said. “Very well.”

The god smiled, and Peter felt a shiver pass through him. It was such a lovely visage.

“Good. Now that you are rested, I have a task for you.”

Peter sat up. “A task? For me?”

“Yes. An important one.”

“It is an honour and a privilege, my lord! I promise to do my best for you!”

-8-

Steve hung his head in his hands, trying to wish away this pounding headache with nothing but pure spite alone. The trouble had begun two days ago, when Chieftain Antony had unceremoniously crashed their meeting, and it hadn’t stopped since. Pepper had proven to be measured, reasoned, and astute. She had been easy to work with, and as the chieftains had planned out their next moves, everything had been going so smoothly.

But now, it almost seemed like all of their hard work was to be for naught.

Anthony had tried to order the troops which had arrived with Pepper to return to their home, but they had refused – true to her word, these warriors were loyal to Pepper. When that had become clear to him, that’s when the yelling began. Anthony was currently screaming about something to do with betrayal and honour, and Steve wished he was anywhere but in that tent.

“Chieftains and Chieftainesses!” came a call from outside.

Immediately, Natasha stood up from her seat.

“Enter!” she commanded.

Falsworth emerged through the tent flap, and bowed to the room. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but a messenger has just arrived from Roophoek, and he requires the immediate attention of our chieftain,” he said.

Steve stood. “My apologies, brothers and sisters, but this sounds urgent; I must attend to this messenger.”

Thor nodded. “Very well; let’s adjourn for the time being. It grows late in the day, so perhaps we shall resume on the morrow?”

Wanda, Pietro, and Natasha all nodded. “Yes, let us do so.”

Hastily, Steve said his farewells and made his exit. Once they had stepped into the open air, Steve turned to Falsworth. “Where?”

“He’s waiting in your tent.”

“Thanks.” He gave his friend a relieved smile. “You have good timing.”

Falsworth chuckled. “We could hear it from across the camp; I came as soon as we spotted Peter’s horse from the watchers’ perch.”

Steve clasped the man’s shoulder. “You have my gratitude.”

Nervous anxiety propelled his steps, and it didn’t take long for Steve to traverse the length of the camp to his tent. Sweeping the flap aside, Steve entered. Immediately, he spied Peter in the middle of the tent, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and wringing his hands nervously.

Before he was able to say anything, Steve was knocked onto his ass by huge mass of fur barking excitedly.

“Ah!” Steve sputtered, his face scrunched up as he was licked by a very enthusiastic and very wet tongue.

“No!” he heard Peter cry, “bad girl! Sit!”

Two hands pulled the beast off him, and Steve wiped the cooling slobber from his eyes, only to come face to face with a large, fully grown wolf. The animal was sitting patiently by Peter’s side, her mouth open and tongue lolling as she panted happily. Her fur was white as frost, with streaks and patches of dark gray over her face and back. Steve had fought off wild wolves before, and none he had seen were as big as this one.

“Chieftain, are you okay?”

Steve laughed a bit, still slightly stunned by turn of events. “Yes, Peter, I’m fine. She seemed to be overly excited.”

“Thank the gods!”

Holding out his hand, Steve beckoned to the wolf. Immediately, the animal bounced to its feet and approached him. She sniffed Steve’s fingers before nuzzling her face into his palm, her warm, wet nose brushing against his skin. Laughing, Steve rubbed her head with his other hand, scratching her scalp gently with his fingers. The wolf’s tail wagged back and forth happily at the attention.

“Care to explain?” Steve asked Peter, lifting an eyebrow with curiosity.

Peter’s face flushed and he stammered for a few minutes, trying and failing to find his words.

Concern spiked through Steve, and he got up off the floor. “Did something happen?” he asked, placing his hands on the boy’s shoulders.

“Yes? No? It’s… hard to explain?”

“Okay,” Steve said calmly. He moved to the mass of blankets on his bedding and indicated for Peter to sit beside him. “Here, sit, and start from the beginning.”

Peter did as he was told, falling ungracefully onto the soft fabrics. The wolf followed them over, sitting by their feet, looking attentive.

“I rode as quickly as I could,” Peter recounted, “but I couldn’t push too hard, since we were carrying so much cargo. I made it back to Roophoek in good time though, and I went straight to the sanctuary, just like you said.”

“Okay, that’s good,” Steve said. He was watching Peter’s face as he spoke, and the boy looked straight ahead, gesturing with his hands as he talked; a small wrinkle on his brow belayed how focused he was on his tale.

“So I went to the alter, and I said a prayer, and I put all the offerings on it. And… And then I… I did the…” Peter visibly swallowed. “I did the tribute… thing… with the bowl. Exactly like you told me.”

Steve nodded. “Good. Thank you, Peter.” On the inside, Steve sighed with relief. He wasn’t sure that it would work, but he had tried. Only time would tell if it was enough to extend the Lord Buchanan’s blessings for another mooncycle.

“And then… he was there,” Peter whispered with a shiver.

For a moment, Steve thought he had misheard, but Peter had turned wide eyes upon him. Taken aback, Steve searched his face, and in the end, he found no reason to believe that Peter might be lying. “The Lord Buchanan appeared before you?” Steve whispered back.

Peter nodded slightly. “Did you… have you met him too?”

Steve nodded back. “Yes.”

Peter’s eyes widened even more, his face owlish with disbelief, and Steve realized that since the encounter, Peter might have started to doubt himself – perhaps believing he had dreamed it all. Steve certainly understood the feeling.

Steve licked his lips. “Did he…” He stopped himself. “What happened?”

Peter swallowed loudly. “He thanked me for the tribute, said something about the meaning of life and how all things fade? I didn’t really understand it, but he told me to rest, that he would watch over me, and I was so tired from the journey, and I fell asleep.”

“And when you woke?”

“He was still there, and he gave me an important task.”

Steve’s eyebrows climbed high onto his forehead. “A task?”

“Yes. First, he told me to bring Sigvardr to your side,” Peter said, petting the head of the tame wolf. “He said she is one of the Greatwolf Cana’s granddaughters, and he sent her to watch over you.”

Steve turned to the huge animal. “That’s her name?” he said.

“Yes.”

Petting through the wolf’s fur, Steve repeated it. “Sigvardr.”

Hearing her name, Sigvardr perked up, panting happily.

“He also said to give you these,” Peter said, reaching into his tunic. From beneath the folds of his shirt, he withdrew a small package. Unwrapping it revealed two large, palm sized discs. “This medallion is also for your protection,” Peter said, handing over the steel item. “Lord Buchanan said to wear this beneath your armour, and it will shield you from harm in battle.”

Taking the heavy item, Steve turned it over in his hands, examining it. Pressed into the cast metal was an intricate design, ringed with powerful runes.

“This is the third and last thing,” Peter said, holding out the second disc.

Placing the medallion onto the bedding between them and took the second item. It was much lighter than the medallion. Rough to the touch, it felt dry and papery, like it had been made of mulched vegetation which had been pressed into a cake and left to dry. “What is it?” Steve asked.

“I’m not sure,” Peter said, “but Lord Buchanan gave these instructions. At night, when the moon has reached its apex, you are to close yourself in your tent and burn this in your hearth. It will apparently fill the tent with a thick but sweet smoke; be careful not to let the smoke escape the tent, as best you can. You are instructed to… uh…” Peter fidgeted. “You are to strip naked and rub the smoke into you skin, and polish your armour and weapons with it. And then, before the smoke dissipates you are to… to…” Peter covered his face with his hands. “You are to empty your seed into the fire,” he finished, his words barely audible.

Steve waited in silence for a moment, and then gently pulled Peter’s hands away from his face. The boy’s cheeks were still flushed with embarrassment, and he wouldn’t meet Steve’s eyes.

“Thank you for bringing Lord Buchanan’s message to me,” he said calmly, pitching his voice low and soothing. “You have done good work, and I’m proud of you.”

Gathering his courage, Peter’s eyes slowly trailed upwards until their gazes locked. “Y-You are?”

“Yes,” Steve said firmly. “Your help has been invaluable.”

Peter’s hands found Steve’s arm. “You mean it?” he asked, his grip tight.

Steve nodded.

“All I want is to help! But Aunt May said that I wasn’t to start my sword training until my sixteenth summer, and that’s supposed to be this year, but without the chance to be on the battlefield, I didn’t know if I… what I could…”

“It’s all right, Peter. I know. Your turn of years is not quite here yet, but I think you have earned the right to start your training now.”

Peter almost leapt out of his seat. “I can?” he all be shrieked.

“Yes, but-”

The rest of his sentence was cut off by a loud whoop, and Steve flinched at the sudden outburst.

“BUT!” he said, louder this time, and Peter quieted again. “But, you are not allowed on the battlefield until I say you are ready. You are training only, and you are to remain at camp while you are doing so. Understood?” he said, pinning Peter with his best stern expression.

“I swear!” Peter said, nodding vigorously. “Thank you!” he said, throwing his arms around Steve’s neck.

Chuckling, Steve hugged him back. “You’re welcome.”

Belatedly, Steve thought this might be what it would be like to have a younger brother. Or perhaps, a son.

-8-

Steve parried his opponent’s blade, the clash of steel against steel sending vibrations up his arm and into his shoulder. Stepping to the side, he flicked his wrist, deflecting the attack and with a lunge, Steve aimed the tip of his blade for the exposed join between plates in the Promancorian soldier’s armour.

With a sickening squelch, his sword broke through, severing the joint. Crying out in pain, the soldier crumpled to one knee.

Steve heard a deep, low growl a moment before a blur of white fur rushed past him, and suddenly the soldier was knocked to the ground, his throat ripped out by viciously sharp teeth.

The gruesome sight made Steve flinch. He hated taking another man’s life, and many of the soldiers in the Promancorian army seemed to be little more than boys, only just on the cusp of manhood, with their entire lives ahead of them. And yet they had been compelled into this war, either by their own convictions, or against their will; because of it, Steve was faced with no choice but to take their lives in order to save those of his own people.

Sigvardr howled triumphantly, her jaws soaked in the blood of her fresh kill. Her heckles were raised, her body poised to take on the next solider who dared engage them in combat. The sounds of a bloody battle resounded like a chorus around them – the clang and clash of weapons against armour was punctuated by shouts, grunts, and cries of terror. This symphony of death hung heavy in the air, and it weighed heavy on Steve’s heart.

Looking out over the battlefield, he could see that their forces were evenly matched, and the battle seemed to be in a deadlock. To the east, he spied a flash of brilliant red. It must be Natasha – there was no other warrior with that speed and colour of armour.

“Sigvardr, come!” he commanded. The wolf turned, setting her clear, predatory eyes upon him. Steve gestured for her to follow, and set off in Natasha’s direction. Working together, the two of them cut a path through the Promancorian army until he found the Chieftainess of Red Mists.

“The longer this stalemate lasts, the heavier our losses,” Steve said as he engaged with Natasha’s current opponent.

The wide slash of his sword sent the solider stumbling back into Sigvardr’s range. With a strong headbutt, the wolf knocked the soldier to the ground, and she went straight for the man’s throat with her claws and teeth.

“Whoever their commander, they seem extremely well versed in the art of swordplay,” Natasha replied. Her face was smudged with dirt and blood, and her hair was coming loose from its ties.

A surge of Clan warriors washed in around them, and Steve and Natasha took the opportunity to catch their breath as their soldiers pushed forward the front. Sigvardr returned to Steve’s side, sitting down to clean her paws as the two humans talked.

“You’ve faced him?” Steve asked, panting. His underclothes were soaked through with a combination of sweat and blood, and the moisture was threatening to loosen his ability to grip his sword hilt.

Natasha shook her head. “No, but their soldiers can barely hold up a lance, let along fend off the skill and prowess of our warriors. The only way this battle could be this evenly matched is if their commander is making up for the inexperience of his troop.”

“I don’t like the sound of that.”

“Neither do I,” she replied grimly. “We need to find him, and take him out. Cut off the head of the beast, and the rest will scatter like rats.”

“Do you know where this commander is?”

“No.”

“Any guesses?”

Casting her eyes around the field where the battle raged, Natasha was quiet.

Steve decided to do the same, and searched with his own eyes. The battle line where the Clan forces clashed with the leading Promancorian soldiers stretched out before them. The field was fairly flat, and without a vantage point, it was difficult to see far.

“There are a couple of possibilities,” said Natasha, her eyes coming back to look up at Steve.

“There’s one over there,” Steve said, pointing to the east. “There seems to be a break in the front line.

“Yes,” agreed Natasha. “Two more, there and there,” she added.

Steve looked to where she pointed, and saw what she was indicating.

“We should split up, move in opposite directions along the front. It’ll be faster, and that way, one of us is guaranteed to cross paths with him.”

“Alright. Do you wish to go east? Or west?”

Natasha pointed her thumb over her shoulder. “I’ll go east; the blockage over that way looks farther out, and I’m faster than you.”

Steve nodded. “Very well. Sigvardr and I will check out the two on this side.”

Natasha held up her arm, and Steve clasped it in his hand. “May the gods be with you.”

“May the gods be with you,” Natasha replied.

Turning away, they separated.

Breaking into a jog, Steve travelled westward behind the front lines, Sigvardr following on his heels. The two dodged between injured warriors retreating from battle and the return of fresh troops. They reached the first break in the line fairly quickly, and jumped straight into the fray.

It became immediately apparent that the enemy commander wasn’t the cause. A group of rather skilled Promancorian soldiers had pushed back the Clan warriors in the part of the front, forcing back the battle lines in this region.

Sigvardr howled as she joined the fray, and Steve rallied the men to him, raising his shield and engaging with one of the lancers. The soldier lunged, sending his lance forward, and Steve deflected, the steel tip glancing off his shield as he weaved between thrusts. Steve was out-ranged by the long weapon, so the chieftain took his time, carefully manoeuvring around the soldier until he was pinned in an awkward position, giving Steve the opening to get close.

Knocking the man off balance with a well-timed pommel strike, Steve handily took down his opponent. The heavy thud of the soldier’s body on the soft, wet ground was met by a cheer from his warriors, who regrouped around him.

Taking down the remaining soldiers and pushing forward the front line took more time than Steve would have liked, but he didn’t want to leave a weak opening behind while he scouted for the enemy commander. After the front had been moved up and Steve was confident that the warriors could handle it from then on, Steve took a minute to catch his breath. Sweat dripped from his brow, and beneath his helmet, his hair was plastered uncomfortably to his skin. He could feel the ache of exertion in his muscles, but the battle was far from won.

After a moment’s respite, Steve and Sigvardr pushed onward.

Arriving at the second place where the Clan warriors seemed to be struggling, Steve suddenly found that the men from both sides had backed away to form a small clearing. Inside, three Clan warriors were engaged in a vicious battle against one soldier.

Instantly, Steve knew he had found the commander.

The soldier as tall, and clad in a full suit of steel armour. Though the plates were streaked with dirt and blood, it was clear that the armour had been painted in bright colours. The breastplate was a brilliant orange-red, onto which a black emblem had been mounted – the strange symbol seemed to depict a multi-headed creature with tentacles.

Steve’s eyes quickly scanned the opposing commander’s kit, his mind cataloguing as he went. He wore closed helmet, with only a slit visor – it would limit his vision; the armour was thick and heavy – too strong to get through with his sword, but the weight would hinder mobility; the joints between armour plates glittered – likely a chainmail layer, which would protect the otherwise exposed areas; he wielded a lance in one hand, and a heavy, spiked mace in the other – it would be hard to get past the long reach of the lance, and even if he could, he would have to contend with the mace. Steve would have to be careful – a lance through the stomach would certainly spell his end, and if he was too slow, the mace could easily crush his skull, too. If the commander was not so skilled, the weight and difficulty of both weapons would hinder his movements and make it easy to slip past his defenses, but if he was proficient, it would be very difficult to take down this commander.

Steve watched as the Clan warriors circled the commander, who stoically held his ground in the centre of the cleared circle. The scene felt like watching a pack of predators surrounding an immense boulder. Every time one of the warriors tried to dart forward, they were met with either the sweeping arc of the lance tip or the swing of the mace, and had to quickly dodge, lest they meet their end. This carried on for several minutes, neither side winning the advantage, until one of the Clan warriors made a rush for the enemy’s exposed back.

With a surprising, almost inhuman level of agility – especially given the weight of the armour – the enemy commander pivoted around, catching the warrior in the shoulder with the spiked mace. The warrior crumped to the ground with a shout of pain, and the lance plunged into his chest a moment later, ending his life.

The watching Promancorian soldiers erupted into cheers, their voices drowning out those from the Clan warriors who were trying to rally and regroup.

Steve could not allow this enemy to fell any more of their men. He took a step forward, Sigvardr at his side, breaking away from the crowds on the sidelines and into the clearing.

The Clan warriors, who had suddenly noticed one of their chieftains was among them, began to cheer, backing away to give him space. The other two warriors in the clearing, upon seeing Steve enter, quickly retreated, taking the body of their fallen brethren with them.

The commander seemed to pause, assessing its new opponent. Twirling the mace through the air, the knight seemed to be playing, taunting Steve to make the first move.

Sigvardr had proven to be an invaluable partner in combat, but Steve didn’t think her teeth and claws would be any use against such a heavily armoured foe, and he feared that an errant strike from either weapon would be catastrophic to her unshielded body.

“Sigvardr,” he said, holding out his shield hand to push her back. “Stand down. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

The wolf pressed her forehead against his hand and growled low with disapproval.

“I can handle this,” Steve said firmly.

Sigvardr huffed loudly, but backed away until she was at the edge of the impromptu ring.

Satisfied, Steve fell into a ready crouch, his shield and sword raised. His focus narrowed down on the armour-clad figure in front of him, and his surroundings faded from his awareness. A one-on-one duel, the most intimately deadly dance. Bouncing on the balls of his feet, Steve circled, taking in the way the commander moved. His mind raced, calculating angles and possible openings. Likewise, his opponent held steadfast, watching as Steve stalked in a half-circle around the arena.

Several minutes passed, with neither one making the first move, each man simply observing the other. When it was apparent that Steve wasn’t going to act first, the commander took the initiative.

With a lunge, the lance thrust forward with a burst of movement.

Steve dodged to the left, the spear tip piercing the air where he had stood mere moments before. Another thrust came, and Steve dodged again.

The armoured knight slowly pushed forward, taking a step with every trust of his lance, and Steve backed up as he dodged. He was continually surprised by the agility this man seemed to possess, given the sheer amount of armour he wore, and Steve began to worry.

One particularly hard thrust was followed by a sweep, and Steve dropped to his knees to avoid the arc of the lance tip; he felt the swish of air as it passed over his bent neck, and it raised the hairs on his spine.

Before he could bounce back to his feet, suddenly his opponent was there, mace raised.

Heart in his throat, Steve rolled to the side, narrowly avoiding the spiked ball of iron that came smashing into the soft ground.

Steve ended the roll on his knees, and lashed out with his sword; his opponent stepped back to avoid the hit. Taking the opening to get to his feet, Steve was up just in time to dodge another swipe from the lance.

The fight continued at a breakneck pace, and Steve found himself on his back foot, dodging strike after strike, and counterattacking whenever he could find the opportunity. It was an unrelenting pace, and Steve could feel himself beginning to tire. Lord Buchanan’s blessings had poured strength, endurance, and agility into his body, and yet he was still struggling against this behemoth of an opponent.

Steve was panting, and he knew he had to act quickly. His opponent was tiring him out, forcing him to move, and waiting until he was weighed down from the fatigue and could no longer dodge the incoming attacks, or made a mistake. If the duel continued like this, he was surely doomed to fail. The commander seemed barely phased by the effort he made to attack, but Steve was being run ragged.

The problem was, until now, Steve had not been able to find any openings, any chances at all to slip between the commander’s defenses to make a proper strike. The knight’s form had been solid and unwavering until this point, so if Steve was going to make any headway in this duel, he would have to create the opening himself.

On the next thrust of the lance, Steve dodged to the left, and with the lance tip just to the side of his shoulder, he struck the pole of it with his sword, swinging it outward.

The parry knocked the lance to the side, forcing his opponent to readjust his stance to bring the lance back under control.

He did the same with the next thrust, trying to see if he could knock the commander off balance, but the armoured knight quickly righted the lance and followed up with a swing from the mace.

Jumping back to avoid the spiked ball, Steve moved to the right, trying to get past the reach of the lance, only for his opponent to swing the lance across his body, the sharpened steel tip of it slicing through the air.

Unable to dodge in time, Steve raised his shield, bracing for the impact.

The lance struck his shield with a loud clang, sending vibrations through his arm, and Steve grit his teeth as he struggled to hold his position.

Taking advantage of Steve’s momentary pause, the commander advanced with his mace, swinging it down.

Steve leapt back, barely avoiding it in time, only to be faced with another trust from the lance.

As he watched the diamond-shaped tip raced towards him, almost in slow motion, Steve realized that there was an opportunity for a gambit – it would likely be costly, but it was potentially just the thing that he had been waiting for, and Steve knew, it would likely bring the end of the duel, regardless of whether he was successful or not.

Twisting his body, he dodged the incoming lance, watching it pass right in front of his chest.

As quickly as he could, Steve swept his left arm up, using his shield to knock the lance away. The tip flew skywards, and in the second it took the knight to adjust his stance, Steve burst into action. He threw his shield as hard as it could, jumping forward as he did so.

The circular steel shield flew through the air, catching the knight in the helmet; the shield bounced off with a resounding clang! The knight stumbled back, momentarily dazed by the hit.

It was exactly the opening Steve needed.

Steve raced forward, and when he was withing range, launched himself at the knight, barreling into his opponent’s chest. The impact was enough to tip his opponent backward, and with a clatter of iron, the knight fell onto his back.

Raising his sword, Steve grasped at his opponent’s helmet with his free hand, trying to pry open a large enough gap to strike at the knight’s throat. The armoured dome was thick and strapped tightly in place, and the angle he was lying on the ground made it near impossible to tilt back, even with his enhanced strength.

Making no headway, Steve brought his pommel back down on the helmet, trying to buy himself a few more previous seconds while he figured out a way to bypass his opponent’s defenses. He was scrambling to find an opening when he saw movement out of the corner of his eye.

This close, Steve didn’t even have the chance to evade the path of the spiked mace.

With a sickening crunch, Steve cried out as the cast iron struck him on the right side of his chest. Steve’s armour crumpled under the hit, the sharpened projections easily piercing through the metal and leather, right into his side, and Steve his ribs breaking.

Steve fell to the side and onto his back, and his opponent easily flipped their positions, looming over him menacingly.

The knight raised his mace to strike once more, but Steve saw his last chance.

Fighting against the searing pain, he punched his opponent in the face. The hit knocked the knight’s head back, exposing his neck for a split second, but it was all Steve needed to plunge his blade into the soft flesh. A wet, gurgling cry erupted from his opponent as a cascade of blood poured fourth, instantly drenching Steve’s armour.

The knight jerked, his limbs spasming, and Steve was quick to push it aside before it could collapse on him, crushing his already injured body. The heavily armoured body fell to the ground with a clatter, sinking into the wet earth.

Suddenly, Steve’s surroundings came rushing back to his senses, and he was met by a cacophony of cheers. Blinking in the bright afternoon sky, his head fell to the side, and could feel the earth shake as he watched the line of spectators rush into the clearing, closing the space that had opened up for their duel as Clan warriors rushed past him, hollering with triumph.

Excruciating pain exploded over Steve’s chest as he tried to inhale, and his breath sounded wet and ragged. Distantly, he could hear shouts.

“Someone get help!” The voice sounded so far away, and Steve’s vision blurred as he fell into darkness.

-8-

Peter anxiously wove his way through the throng of warriors, his helmet pulled low over his face. He needed to get back to camp before anyone could check on his tent and find him missing from it. He knew that Steve would be angry if he discovered that Peter had disobeyed his orders, but it was just nor physically possible for him to sit around and wait while the others clashed blades. He had awoken early that morning with the rest of the camp, and when the fighters had left for the battlefield, he had bounced anxiously from one tent to another, trying to contain his energy. After little more than two hours, he had decided to sneak off to the battlefield to help in any way that he could. He had spent most of the battle among the Clan of the Unseeing Eye, as they were not likely to recognize him; Peter hoped that he could pass unnoticed until they were back at camp.

His concentration was broken by a shout; looking in the direction of the voice, he spied a group of men sprinting from the back lines out onto the field, in the opposite direction that everyone else was moving. Puzzled, Peter squinted, trying to figure out what might be happening.

Peter was surprised to recognize Dugan’s armour and the signature war hammer strapped to his back. His eyebrows climbed into his hairline when he spotted Morita’s decorated helm among them, and when he saw Gabe’s telltale cape fluttering in the wind, his heart dropped to the floor.

Shifting on a dime, Peter sprinted after them, a sinking feeling in his chest. The ground was damp from the previous day’s rain, augmented by a fresh watering of blood, and the grass squelched uncomfortably beneath his booths. The late afternoon sun was peaking out from behind a jigsaw of clouds, and without a fresh breeze, the stale scent of blood and entrails hung heavy in the air. Running as fast as his legs could carry him wearing all this armour, Peter tried to keep up with the Howlies, doing his best not to lose sight of them in the crowd.

When he came upon the chieftain’s body, broken and bleeding on the soft, loamy soil, Peter threw off his helmet, the consequences be damned, and fell to his knees beside the other men.

Steve’s chest rose and fell rapidly with every shallow breath that he took. Someone had removed his armour, which had been cast away. It was dented and the right half had been collapsed inward; the once shining metal had been smeared with blood, now soaking into the bright green grass below.

Sigvardr appeared by Peter’s side, and the boy flung his arms around her neck. “What happened?!?” Peter cried, his eyes filling with tears.

“Took down the general,” said Falsworth, pointing to another body lying not too far away.

“We have to do something!” Peter exclaimed.

“Hush, lad. Calm down. We’re doing all that we can,” said Morita as they watched Dugan lift Steve’s chest so that Gabe could wrap his torso with bandages.

“Transport is on the way,” Dugan said. “We’ve sent word to the healers at camp; they’ll do everything they can.”

“When did this happen? How bad is the wound?” Peter asked.

He was met with silence all around, and Peter could feel his breath catch. As he felt the rising tears threatening to spill over, he felt Sigvardr lick the side of his face, and he was overwhelmed by emotion.

“What’s wrong?” he pleaded, but none of the Howlies would meet his eye. “He’s gonna be okay, right? It’s not – it’s not that bad, right?”

“You shouldn’t be here, lad,” said Dugan as he held Steve’s shoulders propped up. “You’re supposed to be back at camp. This isn’t a place for a boy.”

“I’m not a boy!” Peter shouted as his first tears began to fall. “This is my sixteenth summer! I’m already a man! Steve said-”

“The chief told you to stay put!”

Before Peter could respond, a horse-pulled wagon approached and a man in healer’s robes jumped out. Everything turned into a whirlwind after that; Peter barely registered the men loading Steve into the cart with the healer, whisking him away and leaving the rest of them to follow on foot.

Peter raced to the healing huts as soon as they reached camp with Sigvardr by his side. He grabbed the first healer he came across and demanded to know where Steve had gone. The bewildered woman shook him off, scolding him for getting underfoot. Nerves mounting, Peter went from tent to tent, until he found the largest one. Healers and assistants bustled in and out of it, carrying supplies and other things, each one with a grim.

Peter moved to enter the tent, but had to abruptly stop when a healer emerged from the tent.

“Is the Chieftain in there?” he demanded, clutching tightly at the arm of the nearest one.

“Yes.”

Peter made to slip past the healer, but the man moved to block his path.

“You are not permitted here.”

“Please!” Peter begged. “I need to see him! I need to know if he’s going to be alright!”

The healer shook his head firmly. “No. You’ll be in the way; we need all the space and concentration.”

Peter’s heart sank. “Is it… that bad?”

The man’s expression was stalwart. “His injuries are grave; we are doing everything in our power.”

Peter felt like the wind had been knocked out of his lungs, and his legs began to shake. A fresh wave of tears choked him, and Peter felt like the world was crumbling around him.

The healer grasped Peter by the arm, and forcefully moved him towards another tent. “We don’t have time for this, boy,” he said harshly, as he pushed Peter inside.

There were several mounds of bedding, and Peter was half-pushed, half-collapsed onto one.

“Stay here,” the healer commanded before exiting the tent.

As the tears began to fall, Peter heard the tent flap move and Sigvardr’s heavy breath approached. The grief gripped him like a vice, and through his sobs of despair, Peter felt Sigvardr’s cool nose and she nuzzled close to him. Throwing his arms around her, Peter clung to the wolf for comfort, unable to handle the barrage of emotion that overwhelmed him.

-8-

Peter woke with a start, falling to the side as he was jostled. Confused, he peered into the darkness of the tent. It was quiet, and the soft sounds of running water, crackling fires, and chirping crickets were the only things he could hear. He must have fallen asleep soon after being moved inside, and he couldn’t have been unconscious for more than a couple hours. A huff sounded from the side, and a furry head butted up against his shoulder.

“Sigvardr?” Peter whispered.

He was answered by a quiet bark and a huff of air.

“What is it?” he asked, rubbing the exhaustion from his eyes.

Sigvardr whined, and she turned in a circle, hitting Peter in the chest with her tail as she moved.

“What are you- hey!”

The wolf nipped at Peter, taking a mouthful of his shirt and pulling at him.

“What’s gotten into you?” Peter asked as Sigvardr dragged him out the tent flap and into the cool summer air. It was twilight, and the sky was cast in dark muted colours. “What are you doing?”

Sigvardr growled at him.

“What?” he whispered sharply, trying not to draw attention to them.

Sigvarder looked towards the tent Peter knew Steve was being treated in, and then back to Peter.

“Steve? What about Steve?”

Grunting, Sigvardr moved her head, first from the tent, then to Steve, then to the north, and let out a soft howl.

“What do you want? I don’t understand!”

Growling again, Sigvardr pointedly looked at the tent.

“Steve…?”

Then she gently headbutted Peter in the chest.

“Me?”

Biting the sleeve of Peter’s shirt, Sigvardr pulled him between the tents until they came to the horse drawn wagon.

“You want me… to take Steve somewhere? But wh-”

Sigvardr looked straight up into the night sky and howled.

Flinching, Peter covered his ears. “SHHHHH!” he begged. “Don’t do that! You’ll wake up the whole camp! I don’t understand what you want me to- OOF!”

Bowled over by Sigvardr’s bulk and strength, Peter had the wind knocked out of him as landed on his back. Blinking, Peter tried to catch his breath as he looked up into the night sky. Clouds drifted past the tapestry of stars, and a crescent moon hung high above the horizon.

The moon!

Peter sat up. “Lord Buchanan!” he gasped. “You want me to take Steve to Lord Buchanan?!”

Sigvardr yipped, bouncing on her front paws.

“But that’s so far! We… we’d have to travel all night! And, and, the healers would never let him go! He… Steve might not make the journey…”

The wolf chuffed.

“I… I don’t know if…”

With a bark, the wolf took Peter’s sleeve in her teeth and pulled once more.

“You think we… we should try?”

Sigvardr nodded.

Peter exhaled. It was crazy. A crazy plan, but if it worked… “Okay. Okay, you’re right. We have to try!”

Sneaking back between the tents, Peter found the one where Steve had been placed. As quietly as he could, Peter slipped beneath the flap. The space was lit by two candles, casting the small area in a dim orange glow. Steve was lying in the middle of the ground, on a soft mound of bedding.

“Who goes there?” said a low voice.

Peter jumped, startled by the question; he had not expected anyone to be in the tent. Sitting beside Steve, the figure who spoke wore the colours of a healer but the robe was cut in the style favoured by priests. A thin, boney hand emerged from a deep sleeve to pull away the hood, revealing a young man with dark, wavy hair and piercing yellow eyes. His face was long and narrow, with a beak-like nose, and pale, thin lips.

“I-I’m Peter. Who are you?”

“I am called Kurt. You should not be here; this is no place for fighters.” Bright eyes swept up and down Peter’s form before he added, “even ones who are in training.”

Peter swallowed. “How… How is he?”

“We are doing our best.”

“He’s not gonna make it, is he?” Peter said, his voice shaking as the words left his mouth.

Kurt gave him a tight smile. “We are doing our best,” the man repeated. “You should leave. Please.”

“I-”

Just then, Sigvardr slipped into the tent, and Kurt jumped to his feet at the sight of the wolf, his eyes wide.

“No, girl, wait outside!” Peter said as she came to stand beside him.

Sigvardr looked up at him inquisitively, as if to say, ‘what’s taking so long?’

“I-It’s tame?” Kurt whispered, the terror clear on his face.

Peter rolled his eyes. “When she wants to behave.”

Sigvarder walked up to Kurt, lifting her face to look up at him.

“He’s a friend,” Peter said to her, although he was fairly certain that she wouldn’t bite the man.

Sigvardr nodded.

“S-She understands you?” Kurt gasped.

The wolf chuffed, looking up expectedly.

“She wants you to pet her,” Peter said.

Nervously, slowly, Kurt took one of the hands which he had clutched to his chest and lowered it to between Sigvardr’s ears.

Huffing softly, Sigvardr rubbed her head against Kurt’s long, thin fingers.

“Oh!” Kurt exclaimed softly, and promptly knelt on the ground to pet her with both hands.

Wagging her tail happily, Sigvardr basked in the attention for a moment before pulling back to look into Kurt’s eyes.

Silence stretched between them for a moment, during which Peter began to get nervous again.

“You are no feral beast,” Kurt said quietly.

Sigvardr shook her head.

“Such intelligence… and your size, the softness of your coat, your colour… perhaps… And you are a companion of the White Star Clan? They offer prayers to the Winter Lord, whose companion is the incarnation of the North Wind itself, the Mother Beast…”

Sigvardr huffed, her tongue darting out to lick her sharp teeth.

“Are you a messenger of the gods?” Kurt asked.

The wolf gazed unflinchingly into the man’s eyes.

“You are.” The priest took a shaking, unsteady breath. “A messenger of the gods… but what…” Kurt’s eyes strayed to Steve’s sleeping form on the ground beside them. “Are you here for the chieftain?”

Sigvardr barked softly, her tail wagging vigorously.

“Can he… be saved?”

Sigvardr nodded.

Kurt looked at Peter. “That’s why you’re here.”

“Yes!” Peter said, nodding, his heart beating with adrenaline. “We need to bring him to the Winter Lord’s Sanctuary!”

“Very well. Get the horse drawn cart!”

Sprinting, it took Peter little time to retrieve his horse and the cart. By the time he returned, Kurt has wrapped Steve with blankets and prepared a thick layer of bedding for the wagon. Together, the two men carefully lifted Steve into the transport.

“I cannot come with you,” Kurt said as Peter climbed into the driving seat. “But may the gods be with you. Go quickly, before you are discovered.”

Peter nodded. “Thank you for your help!”

The tall man nodded. “Safe journey.”

With a bark, Sigvardr slunk between the tents towards the edge of camp, and Peter spurred his horse into a trot to follow. There was no road to lead them home, but as soon as they were out of sight of the others, Sigvardr broke into a run. Trusting her to take them where they needed to go, Peter blindly followed.

They travelled across the terrain as quickly as Peter dared. The uneven ground was rough, and the cart was jostled and shaken as they travelled, but he had no choice. He felt, deep in his heart, that time was running out.

With that singular focus, Peter pushed through the night; even when his eyes grew tired and his hands grew stiff from gripping the horse reins, he did not stop. When the moon hung low on the horizon, and the sky began to lighten at the first hints of dawn, over the crest of a small hill, the sleeping town of Roophoek came into sight.

Sigvardr led them straight to the sanctuary, and before Peter could tell her that he didn’t have the key, she had raced up the steps to the door. With shock, he watched as she bumped the heavy metal contraption with her nose, and the lock magically sprang open, falling to the floor.

The wolf’s bark broke Peter out of his stunned stupor, and he raced to the doors pulling them open before darting back to the cart.

Steve was lying inside, his breathing quick and shallow. His face was pale, and his blood had soaked through the bandages and into the blankets, filling the air with its coppery tang. Peter hovered anxiously, unsure of what to do. He couldn’t hope to carry Steve himself – he wasn’t nearly strong enough, but there was no time to find help.

Just then, Sigvardr jumped into the cart, kneeling down beside Steve. She looked at Peter, and made gesture with her head.

“What do you-”

Sigvardr barked. She looked pointedly at Steve, then Peter, then flicked her head in an arc. When it was clear that Peter didn’t understand, she repeated the motion.

“Steve… Me… Over… Put Steve over you? Oh! You want to carry him!” Rushing into the cart, Peter tried to follow the wolf’s instructions.

It took some effort, but eventually Peter was able to get Steve draped over the wolf’s body. He held Steve’s body steady as Sigvardr rose up off her feet and slowly began to walk. The wolf was stronger than she looked, and it didn’t take long before she was at the base of the dais, where Peter helped her ease Steve onto the floor.

Shucking his shoes as quickly as he could, Peter fell to his hands and knees on the bearskin rug.

“Lord Buchanan!” he said, feeling every ounce of exhaustion and fear in his body. “Please, help us! Steve is…” A heavy lump formed in Peter’s throat, and it was hard to speak around. “He’s dying and I can’t… Please Lord Buchanan! Please save him!”

Peter looked up at the carved icon on the alter above him, and his tears began to fall once more.

“I don’t… I have nothing to offer in exchange… nothing but my life,” Peter said, feeling numb. “But if that is the cost, then I am willing to pay it. Just please… save him!”

When a hand landed heavily on his shoulder, Peter choked on a sob, his eyes blurry from the flow of his tears.

“Hush now, young one,” a familiar deep voice said gently into his ear, and he felt the presence of a large body as he was enveloped in an embrace from behind. “There is no need to do such a thing.”

Peter felt his hair being brushed aside by large, gentle fingers, and he turned to look up into Lord Buchanan’s face, but could see nothing through the flood that gathered in his eyes.

“Your tears are a powerful offering,” Lord Buchanan said, gathering up the salty drops that were streaming down his face. “They are more than enough.”

Crying in earnest, Peter lunged forward to bury his face into the Winter Lord’s chest, wrapping his arms tightly around the solid form. His body sagged with relief, and yet all it did was make him cry harder.

“Shhh,” Lord Buchanan soothed quietly. “All will be well, young one; I am here now. There is no reason to be afeared.”

After several minutes, Lord Buchanan pulled back. “Be still now, little one. Let me have a look at him.”

Peter nodded, his shoulders still shaking as he hiccupped.

Lord Buchanan stood and walked over to where Sigvardr was watching over Steve. “Good girl,” he said, petting her on the head.

Sigvardr barked happily, looking up at her true master.

“You, too, have done well, my child,” Lord Buchanan said. In his hand a large, meaty bone appeared from nothing, and the god held it out.

Giving a bark, Sigvardr then took the bone in her mouth and bounded out of the building to enjoy her treat.

Lord Buchanan then knelt down, slipping his arms beneath Steve’s body and lifting it like it weighed no more than a feather. The god brought Steve onto the bear rug, settling his body on the ground, with his chest and head propped up against Lord Buchanan’s lap.

“Tell me what happened,” Lord Buchanan said as he began unwrapping the blankets.

The words came tumbling from Peter’s mouth like a torrent, and he was barely aware of what he was saying as he watched the Winter Lord at work. He explained everything he knew about what happened as the soiled wool sheets and linen bandages were quickly removed, revealing the open wounds beneath.

Lord Buchanan placed his hand on Steve’s chest, and closed his eyes. With a slow exhale, his hand began to glow; it was like looking up into the pale, luminous glow of the full moon on a cold night, and it filled Peter was awe and wonder. Miraculously, he watched as Steve’s body began to mend itself. The collapsed half of Steve’s chest filled out, the broken ribs realigning beneath the muscle as it knitted itself back together. Pale skin which had been slashed open crawled back together, closing wounds that had once been deep.

When it was finished, Steve’s breathing evened out, some colour returning to his once pallid skin, but he did not wake.

“Is he…?”

Lord Buchanan smiled softly. “Just sleeping. Though his wounds are now gone, his body is still tired, and needs rest. Here, come,” he said, beckoning Peter.

Peter crawled forward, and when he was within reach, Lord Buchanan took his hand and placed it onto Steve’s bare chest. The firm muscles were warm beneath his touch, and he could feal the steady rise and fall of his ribs. Beneath it, he could feel Steve’s heartbeat, strong and steady, a far cry from the weak fluttering pulse that he had mere moments before.

Peter looked up at Lord Buchanan’s tired but smiling face. The first rays of the cresting sun were beginning to stream through the windows, and Peter couldn’t help but marvel at his beauty. The god seemed to glow with divinity, and for a moment, Peter was almost overwhelmed.

“You have travelled all night,” Lord Buchanan said, tracing the deep bags beneath Peter’s eyes. “You, too, need to rest. Feed and care for your horse, then go into town; the villagers should be awake and beginning their morning routines. They will have a meal for you, and there will no doubt be a bed waiting. I will watch over him here.”

Peter nodded.

The Winter Lord ruffled Peter’s hair. “That’s a good lad.”

-8-

Steve stirred, his brow pinching with discomfort. He could feel a deep ache in his muscles, the bone-throbbing exhaustion from pushing his body past its limit. It was a familiar feeling, but still unpleasant. Turning over, Steve felt the softness of the blankets that enveloped as he curled tighter, drawing his knees towards his chest.

His face was met with a stretch of cool skin, and Steve buried deeper into it, inhaling through his nose. A deep, rich, woody scent permeated his senses – familiar yet fleeting, Steve struggled to recall where or when this memory came from.

A deep, soft chuckle reached Steve’s ears, and he felt gentle fingers trailing against the bare nape of his neck. With some effort, Steve opened his eyes. His surroundings were dark, illuminated by the soft amber glow from a crackling fire he could head behind him. He found himself lying on his side, his head pillowed against a pair of thick, heavyset thighs, his face brushing up against a hard, firm abdomen.

Looking up, Steve felt that he must be in a dream.

Lord Buchanan was sitting on the floor, his back leaning against a familiar marble alter. His silver eyes danced in the flickering firelight, a soft smile upon his lips.

“My lord!” Steve gasped. He tried to sit up, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him.

“Hello, Steve. I’m glad that you have awoken.”

“Where- How- What happened?”

Lord Buchanan’s face turned pensive. “What do you remember?”

Steve frowned, his brow drawn together in concentration. “I… There was a battle; I was with Natasha. We… the Promancorian army was holding out better than we thought they would, given the experience of their solider so we… went looking for their commander. I fought him, their general, and… Oh!”

Steve’s hands flew to his chest, looking for the injuries he remembered sustaining, and was shocked to find none.

“They’re gone! Did you… healed my wounds?!”

“I did. It was near thing, too. Maybe an hour more and you would have been lost. Peter got you to me just in time.”

Steve swallowed. “I almost died.”

“Yes.”

“The knight… He was such a strong opponent. There was… something unnatural about him. I’ve never faced anyone like it before.”

Lord Buchanan hummed. “Yes. He was strongly blessed.”

Steve eyes widened. “He was! I didn’t want to believe it, but it seemed the only explanation.”

“Very much so,” Lord Buchanan said with a nod. “He was enhanced in much the same way that you are, and his armour and weapons were also blessed.”

“I would not have survived the encounter were it not for your gifts,” Steve said softly. “And even then, I barely came away with my life.” Steve bit his lip. “Their gods must be very strong. And this may not be the only solider who walks with their blessings.”

“Yes.”

“This is… disturbing news. This war is now more dangerous than before.”

“They are not the only ones with blessing. You have mine, and the other gods have bestowed blessing their clans as well. Do not fear; all is not lost.”

Steve sighed. “And still, this war drags on. Summer at its end; I fear that when the tide does not turn in their favour, the Promancorians will become increasingly desperate to win. I doubt they will continue their campaign through the winter; they are not equipped to handle the cold of the north.”

Lord Buchanan smiled toothily. “No, winter is not their friend. Should they stay in the north, the ice and snow would surely swallow them whole.”

“But that means that they will either have to win before the end of the warm weather, or retreat for the season and return in the spring.”

“It does.”

“There is not much time left for them. Their so-called Emperor may be planning to make their final assault soon.” Steve sighed once more. He was tired of this war; the constant toll on his mind was weighing heavily on him, and for once he wished he could put down the burden, even if for a moment. Looking around, the now familiar interior of the Sanctuary greeted his eyes. “You said that Peter brought me here?”

Lord Buchanan nodded. “He did. You have chosen well.”

“What do you mean?”

“Peter. He is young, but he has a strong heart. His devotion is absolute. He will make a good successor, one day.”

Steve stared back blankly.

“That is the reason you sent him to give tribute at the last moonfall, is it not?”

“No,” Steve said with surprise. “I sent him because he was the only one that I could trust to do it. The others wouldn’t have understood. I didn’t even consider- I haven’t even thought about what might happen after I pass.”

The Winter Lord looked pensive. “Hm. It seems I may have misunderstood. But I don’t believe that I am wrong. One day, when you are ready to join me for eternity, Peter will be the one to take your place.”

Steve lay in silence, absorbing what Lord Buchanan had said. He wasn’t accustomed to planning so far in advance – all his life, there had always been an immediate danger to survive, and it felt like he had spent event moment fighting tooth and nail to survive. He had never really been afforded the luxury of thinking ahead, of what might happen after; he had been living life from one challenge to the next. speculating about the future and what it might hold was slightly terrifying, and Steve shivered at the thought, but he trusted in the Winter Lord.

“Are you cold?” Lord Buchanan asked, shifting from his sitting position, down, onto the bearskin rug to lay underneath the warm blankets with Steve.

“No, my lord,” Steve replied, but he nevertheless moved to curl up against Lord Buchanan’s body. Strong arms embraced him, and soon Steve was folded close into the god’s chest. “I should probably go soon; everyone is probably worried about me.”

A cool hand stroked gently up and down Steve’s spine. “But I sense that you do not wish to leave.”

Steve shook his head. “I would linger with you a moment longer, if you would permit me.”

“You may.”

Steve lay silent, reveling in the peace and quiet. He could hear the faint sound of Lord Buchanan’s breathing, the broad chest rising and falling slowly in a steady rhythm. He could smell Lord Buchanan’s scent, rich, hearty, and clean. He could feel the strength in the muscles that surrounded him, protecting him from harm.

“My lord?” Steve asked, leaning back a bit.

“Yes?”

Lord Buchanan was looking at him with curiosity. His expression was open and relaxed, and Steve felt an overwhelming feeling clawing at his chest, like a trapped songbird, trying to escape. He looked from Lord Buchanan’s gleaming silver eyes, down, to the soft curve of his pale lips, and back up again.

Slowly, Steve lifted a hand, threading it through Lord Buchanan’s long, silky locks of dark brown hair. Carefully, he tilted the Winter Lord’s face down as he pulled himself up to press their lips together.

The kiss was soft and gentle, a delicate slide of one soul against another, and Steve’s eyelids fluttered shut. Slowly, languidly, Steve relished the moment. One of Lord Buchanan’s hands came to rest on Steve’s back, between his shoulder blades, and the other moved lower to cradle the small of his back, holding him in place. Pressing close, Steve could feel the miles of cool skin against his body, and the slowly growing interest in Lord Buchanan’s trousers.

But Steve wasn’t in a rush. Immersed in Lord Buchanan’s presence, he felt insulated from all his fears, and he wanted this feeling to last an eternity.

Steve wiggled his free hand between them until his palm were resting against Lord Buchanan’s chest. Instinctively, he found one of his ring piercings, and he began to play with it, running his fingers around the ring and rubbing gently at the sensitive nub it was pierced through.

Lord Buchanan chuckled, his warm breath washing over Steve as they continued to kiss. They lay like that for what seemed like ages, enjoying the slow, delicious ecstasy of the present. Lord Buchanan’s tongue licked into Steve’s mouth in quick, darting movements, and Steve teased back with his own tongue as he continued to play with Lord Buchanan’s piercings. They were both half hard, but there was no urgency between them.

Steve could feel the warmth of the blush that was most assuredly painting his face and chest the colour of spring roses, and he could feel it deepening with every soft gasp and moan that was spoken between them. He was insanely attracted to Lord Buchanan; it filled him with such an intensity, and made him drunk with affection.

Slowly, every so slowly, like the gradual drip of honey from a spoon, the kiss began to grow with passion. The lazy, unhurried press of lips gave way to a breathlessness as the pace increased. Like a dance, they began to move, their mouths beginning to seek more, and Steve could feel himself hardening. The air between them grew hotter, and the first hints of sweat started to form on Steve’s skin as the sweetness of their embrace gave way to a more primal, carnal need.

Tongues and teeth clashed until they were both panting for breath. Now fully hard, Steve pinched and tugged at Lord Buchanan’s piercings as he found himself rutting up against Lord Buchanan’s thigh, feeling the coarse material of his linen trousers against his sensitive flesh. Lord Buchanan’s own monstrously large erection was pressed enticing against Steve’s body, teasing him with the possibilities.

“Please,” Steve gasped, his head foggy and drunk with desire.

With a soft growl, Lord Buchanan obliged. Carefully, he turned them until Steve found himself on his back, Lord Buchanan’s broad frame looming over him. “As you wish,” he said, sliding his lips from Steve mouth to his jaw, down to his neck to nip and suck at his soft, exposed skin.

Steve moaned wantonly, his classy eyes staring up at the ceiling. His knees fell open, allowing Lord Buchanan to settle between them, their erections lined up alongside each other, only a thin layer of linen to separate them. The sharp bite of teeth made Steve cry out with pleasure, his hand fisting in Lord Buchanan’s soft hair.

When Lord Buchanan began to roll his hips, Steve’s toes curled. The tension was building in his body, curling like a spring.

“Please, my lord, I want to feel you,” Steve begged. “I’ve been practicing, exactly as you instructed.”

Lord Buchanan pulled back to look at him. “Have you, now?”

Steve nodded, his face burning with arousal. “I can take you. All of you.”

A hand brushed the beads of sweat from Steve’s forehead. “Are you certain?”

“Yes!”

“You are not afraid of my size?”

“No!” Steve gasped. “It pleases me more than you can imagine! Your size is a mark of your divinity; to be able to take it would be a mark of my worthiness.”

Lord Buchanan placed a heavy kiss to Steve’s lips. “Your worth is not defined by this act, dear one.”

“I know, but I wish to prove myself with it nonetheless.”

The Winter Lord smiled. “Very well. Then I shall prepare you.”

Lord Buchanan planted another heated kiss to Steve’s lips before beginning to move down his body, leaving a trail of nips and playful bites down his chest and stomach until he was crouched between Steve’s splayed thighs. It took no effort at all to remove his trousers, and then Steve was completely naked, laid out on the bearskin rug like a feast.

Steve stared up at the ceiling as he felt his thighs being lifted and his feet being placed upon Lord Buchanan’s shoulder.

“What are- OH!”

Steve gasped as he felt something firm, wet, and slightly rough rub up against his hole. He barely had time to take in another breath when it happened again. A tongue. Lord Buchanan’s tongue! Moaning, Steve’s body quivered as the strong muscle circled Steve’s puckered hole, wetting him and pleasuring him all at once. Lord Buchanan quickly worked up a pace, licking at him until Steve’s legs were shaking.

“My lord!” Steve cried when Lord Buchanan’s tongue finally breached him.

“Be still, dear one,” the Winter Lord rumbled in his deep baritone voice before he dove back in.

His wet tongue once more pushed past his opening and kept going until Steve could feel the rough hair of Lord Buchanan’s beard against the soft, sensitive skin of his thighs.

“Ohhh,” Steve moaned as Lord Buchanan’s tongue began to thrust in and out of his hole. The pleasure of the tongue lashing was contrasted against the rasping of his beard, and the combination sent shocks of pleasure riveting through Steve’s veins.

With one hand fisted in the rug beneath him, Steve’s other hand gravitated towards his cock, and soon he was stroking himself as Lord Buchanan lavished his hole. The coiling heat in his gut was tight, but when Steve found himself on the edge of release, Lord Buchanan pulled his hand away.

“Not yet,” he said firmly, placing Steve’s slick hand back onto the rug. “I haven’t had my fill of you.”

Panting heavily, Steve could do nothing but obey. When Lord Buchanan returned to his hole, Steve squeezed his eyes shut, his hand gripping painfully at the rug beneath him as he tried to hold himself back from the pleasure that was being unleashed upon him. Over and over, Lord Buchanan’s tongue thrust into him, circling his hole before each entry, diving deeper and deeper into Steve as his beard scraped against his thigh until he felt raw.

Clenching his teeth, Steve cried out from the effort of holding himself back. The pleasure was so intense, so powerful, that he was sure he was about to spill all over himself without being touched – and Lord Buchanan hadn’t even done anything yet with the hidden spot inside him! Every muscle in Steve’s body was engaged as he fought the onslaught pleasure. His entire body was screaming to release, but Steve was determined not to disobey a direct order.

“Ahhh!” Steve cried as tears gathered in his eyes.

Suddenly, Lord Buchanan pulled back, and the cool air that bushed against Steve shocked him.

The Winter Lord chuckled softly as Steve tried to regain control of himself, panting heavily. Steve had leaked a pool of sticky slick onto his abdomen, and Lord Buchanan bent down to lick it up, humming happily as he went.

“Are you ready now?” Lord Buchanan asked.

Unable to form words, Steve merely nodded.

“Very well.”

Steve heard the sound of a cork being removed, followed by the slick glide of oil on skin. And then Lord Buchanan was looming over him once more.

Eager to watch, Steve propped himself up on his elbows. Lord Buchanan was kneeling between his legs, one hand wrapped around the base of his huge girth. This was the third time he was seeing it now, but Steve was still awed by the sheer size of Lord Buchanan’s anatomy. Its thickness was unparalleled, even more so in its length, and Steve’s mouth began to water just from looing at it. Steve suddenly wished that he had offered to please Lord Buchanan with his mouth before they got to this point. He remembered the heavy, tangy taste of Lord Buchanan’s wetness; he missed feeling the ache in his jaw and the rawness in his throat after the last time.

Now that it was generously slicked with oil, Lord Buchanan pressed forward until his wide head nudged up against Steve’s hole. Moaning deeply, Steve’s head fell back as he felt the blunt head pressing up against him. He took a deep breath in, trying to relax; he needed to relax to let it in. A wet hand touched him behind the knee, pushing his leg back to stretch him out.

With a firm push, the head broke through, and Steve felt like the air had been knocked out of his lungs. The stretch was bordering on painful, and this was only just the beginning! The toys he had been using had been good preparation, but there was nothing like the feeling of Lord Buchanan himself. The mere thought of having this literal god inside him made Steve drunk, and his body spasmed with pleasure, clamping down on the head that was buried inside him.

“Steven” Lord Buchanan said with gritted teeth. “You must relax.”

“I’m sorry my lord,” Steve panted. “You’re so big; it feels so good.”

“Breathe, dear one.”

Steve did as he was told, trying to breathe slowly as his heart attempted to hammer its way out of his chest. Slowly, Lord Buchanan began to move, sinking into him slowly.

“Ohhh,” Steve moaned, feeling every bit stretched to the limit. Not wanting to miss the sight, Steve forced his eyes open. Lord Buchanan was halfway in, and Steve couldn’t believe that he was taking its incredible girth. It was such an obscene sight, the way his hole was being pushed beyond the boundaries of what he felt possible. He felt so full, not only from the stretch of his hole, but the depth of the penetration, and yet there was still more to come. The head was deep, now brushing up against his pleasure spot, and Steve groaned as the tip teased the edge of it.

“You like that?” Lord Buchanan said with a grin.

“Don’t stop!” Steve pleased.

Lord Buchanan moved his hands to Steve’s ankles holding them high in the air for a better angle and he gave a small thrust. The movement pushed his head against Steve’s spot, and his body shook from the sharp burst of pleasure.

“Ah!” Steve cried, and Lord Buchanan smiled toothily.

Regaining control of himself, Steve looked back down. Bit by bit, Lord Buchanan continued to slide into him, and Steve could feel the length of his cock as it slid against his prostate. Deeper it went, deeper than anything Steve had ever had, pushing up against his guts until finally, finally, Lord Buchanan was fully seated inside.

Steve collapsed onto his back, his breathing quick and shallow. Stars swam across his vision as he tried to relax, but no matter what he did, his body felt full, so incredibly full.

“Are you alright?” Lord Buchanan asked quietly.

Steve gasped. “You’re… so big,” he panted. He placed a hand on his abdomen, where it felt like he could sense Lord Buchanan’s hardness beneath the muscles. “Feels like my guts are being rearranged inside me.”

Lord Buchanan frowned with concern. “Maybe this is a bad idea; I’ve never gone this far before; perhaps your human body is not be able to handle this without injury.”

“No!” Steve exclaimed when he felt Lord Buchanan about to withdraw. “I can do it! I can take it. Just give me a moment. Please.”

Lord Buchanan fell silent, and for several minutes, the only sound in the room was Steve’s laboured breathing. Eventually, the discomfort simmered down to a bearable level, and Steve exhaled.

“Okay,” Steve said. “I’m ready.”

Gingerly, Lord Buchanan withdrew a bit and then eased back in. The glide was slow and torturous, but felt incredible, and Steve moaned loudly.

“How does it feel?” Lord Buchanan asked as he began to pull back again.

“Absolutely divine,” Steve said, earning a chuckle from the Winter Lord.

“Well, if you have enough mental capacity to make jokes, then perhaps I’m not doing this right,” he replied.

Steve was about to retort when Lord Buchanan slammed back into him without warning. Shouting in surprise, Steve’s hole burned from the rough intrusion, and his guts felt like it had been speared open. The Winter Lord worked up into a steady rhythm, pulling back slowly so that Steve would feel every inch, every ounce of this thickness until only the head was left inside, then slamming it all back into him, rubbing it all against Steve’s prostate, sending lightening through is veins. The lewd, wet slap of Lord Buchanan’s strong thighs against Steve’s full ass filled the air, accompanying the litany of gasps and moans that spilled from Steve’s lips.

It was intense, and Steve loved every second of it. He was high on the feeling of Lord Buchanan’s cock deep inside him; owning him, claiming him, showing him the fullest depths of passion imaginable. Steve was being bent in half, his knees pressed up against his shoulders as Lord Buchanan loomed over him. Sweat dripped from his nose and the tips of his hair, showering Steve with the proof of his exertion.

“Kiss me,” Steve panted, and Lord Buchanan’s lips crashed into his, biting and licking with passion as the pace of his thrusts increased. Over and over, Lord Buchanan pounded into him, assaulting him so deeply and so fully, that everything lost all meaning. The only thing that existed was the deep, musky aroma of their sex, the slap of muscle against muscle, the feeling of the deep violation, the wet firmness of skin beneath his fingertip, the unabating friction against his nerves. Steve was so hard it was painful, and he could feel himself fast approaching the edge of his pleasure, but he didn’t want to stop it. Faster and faster he flew, until suddenly-

“Ah!” Steve shouted suddenly as his entire body was gripped with the force of his orgasm. He felt as though he had been struck by lightning, inflaming every pore, making every fibre of his body clench from the pleasure that shot through him. Steve’s body spasmed as he felt his release course through him; his searing hot seed spilled forth in spurts, coating both their chests as his whole body pulsed – once, twice, thrice, again and again, for what seemed like an age, like a raging river flowing over a cliffside, water accelerating towards the bottom by the casket until it smashed into the rocks below.

As he felt the intensity begin to weaken, he heard a deep growl above him, and suddenly the fullness within him began to multiply and he realized that Lord Buchanan was emptying himself inside him, filling him with his seed. Lord Buchanan continued to thrust throughout his release, pushing the seed deeper and deeper into him as the sound of their coupling became wet and salacious.

When he was finished, Lord Buchanan thrust into him once more, keeping every drop of his seed plugged inside him as they kissed. He was still fully hard, and Steve could feel the length throbbing.

“You feel so good,” Steve whispered against Lord Buchanan’s lips.

“You do too.”

“Can you go again?”

Lord Buchanan chuckled. “You are unsatiable, dear one. Don’t be greedy.”

“Please,” Steve said, “I want more; I know you have the stamina.”

“And how many more times must I fill you up before you are satisfied?”

“Until I lose consciousness from the pleasure.”

A laugh. “Perhaps another time, but not this night. Your body is still recovering; we must not over-exert it.”

Steve sighed. “Very well. But one day.”

He could feel the smile Lord Buchanan pressed into the cook of his jaw. “One day.”

-8-

Steve’s stomach churned as he stepped onto the grassy plain. Sigvardr paced beside Steve, her ears perked and eyes sharp on high alert. The trees of the forest behind them swayed in the cool, gentle autumn breeze. All around, he could hear the sounds of clinking steel as the warriors from all five clans assembled on their side of the field. Across the expanse of golden and green grass, Steve could see the ranks of the Promancorian army forming, the bright morning sunlight glinting off their armour.

“They’ve brought fewer men than I thought,” Natasha remarked with a frown.

“Surely, a boon!” Thor replied, tossing his war hammer between his hands. “They must have had fewer reinforcements than we though; odds may yet be in our favour.”

Wanda narrowed her eyes. “I’m not convinced. Something is different.”

“We shouldn’t be overconfident,” Pepper said, shading her eyes with her gauntlet-clad hand. “We will stick to the plan.”

“The faster we win this, the better,” Tony mumbled from beside his wife.

“We’ll see.”

The tension before battle was thick in the air; it was perhaps the thing Steve hated the most about this damned war. A loss, he could handle, but the anticipation, the uncertainty, with nothing to do but wait? It was torturous.

The Promancorians had been losing ground, and for the last few weeks, their commanders had been amassing troops at their central base of operations and had been initiating fewer attacks. With the threat of winter looming, it seemed that today would be their final push. As summer had bled into fall, Steve’s hopes for victory against the invaders rose with the sun each morning.

Normally, the harvest season was melancholy; a time to bid farewell to the bounty of summer and to prepare for the harsh bitterness of winter. But this year, Steve welcomed the onset of winter with open arms, for it now served as a guard against the threat of conquest.

“Who is that?” Pietro asked, pointing across the field.

Steve squinted, trying to make out what Pietro had spotted.

The Promancorian front line had broken in the centre, the rows of armoured soldiers parting like the sea to make way for the emergence of a tall figure. It was hard to see from this distance, but the newcomer was clad in gleaming armour which shone thrice as much as their soldiers. When they turned, Steve could see that they were wearing a long cape, half black and half red. Their head was adorned with an elaborate helmet, also painted red, from which bright red feathers sprouted.

The figure marched past the line of soldiers, stepping into the territory between them, their head held high.

“I don’t recognize the armour,” Steve said.

“Nor do I,” said Pepper. “Has anyone faced them on the battlefield?”

“I have,” said Thor. “He is their self-proclaimed Emperor. “He personally led several battles in the campaign on the Eastern River Jersey. We had some trouble turning back his forces; only with no small degree of luck did we prevail.”

They continued to watch as the emperor and a small contingent of guards marched all the way to the half-way point between them. Lifting his head proudly, he said something loudly and confidently in the language of his people.

“What did he say?” asked Tony.

Natasha crossed her arms. “He basically demanded our surrender,” she said, rolling her eyes.

“Ha! Surrender? We haven’t given any ground since this whole war started! Why should we surrender now?”

The emperor continued to pontificate, his hands gesturing wildly as he spoke.

“He seems rather convinced,” Wanda observed, her eyes narrowed. “What’s he going on about?”

“Threats about being wiped off the face of the earth,” Natasha said with a roll of her eyes.

“What do we do?” Pepper asked.

“He seems to be waiting for a formal response,” said Pietro.

“Then let’s give him one,” said Steve. “Natasha?”

“Very well,” she said, dropping her arms to her side to step forward. The other chieftains and chieftainesses stepped forward with her.

The movement captured the man’s attention.

Raising her voice, Natasha responded in the Promancorian language, to which the emperor frowned.

“I take it he didn’t like our answer.”

The man threw his hands up, shouting once more.

“He says this is our last chance to surrender, that he won’t kill us all if we do, only enslave us.”

“How generous,” said Thor with a snort.

Natasha raised her voice once more to deliver their response.

Clearly frustrated, the emperor shrieked something long and presumably expletive before turning on his heels and marching back to his forces, screaming orders as he went.

“Well, here goes nothing,” Steve said, placing his helmet on his head as the group of them returned to their own forces.

“Wait!” said Pietro. “What are they doing?”

Steve turned to face the enemy, where the front lines had opened up to reveal a small clearing in their midst. What appeared to be enough wood for a large bonfire had been piled high in the center. Men and women in fluttering robes, dyed in red and black, were pouring into the space, some carrying banners on poles, and others with strange lantern-like devices.

Steve’s stomach turned over. “I don’t like the look of this,” he said as he drew his sword.

Nervously, the other leaders drew their weapons.

On the other side of the field, a string of people were marched into the clearing. Clad in nothing but rags, they had been chained together, their feet and hands restricted. The emperor then stepped into the clearing, a burning torch held high above his head, and the priests raised their item and began to chant. He lit the tinder of the bonfire, and the whole pyre became alight at once, instantly becoming a roaring blaze that was taller than two grown men. The wind blew in their direction, bringing the heavy scent of incense and burning perfumes.

Steve’s eyes widened.

A ritual.

“We have to stop them!” Steve cried, fearing what might happen should they succeed.

With a rallying cry, Steve raised his sword. “CHARGE!” he cried, plunging forward.

An uproar of sound erupted from the warriors of the north, and ground rumbled and shook as they surged forward en mass. At his side, all of the other chieftains and chieftainesses advanced, their own weapons drawn.

As they charged across the field, Steve watched the Promancorian Emperor take the first prisoner by the hair. With a glittering golden knife, he slit the man’s throat, the blood spilling onto the ground. Cutting him free from the chains, the emperor tossed the body onto the flames, which instantly engulfed the corpse.

“No!” cried Wanda as they raced towards the Promancorians.

With a toothy grin, the emperor reached for the next prisoner as the Promancorian soldiers surged forward to meet them, protecting their emperor and his accursed ritual. Their forces met with the clash of steel, and the battle was begun.

With a sinking heart, Steve knew they wouldn’t make it in time. Sword slashing, Steve fought tooth and nail to break through the lines. He felled soldiers as quickly as he could, trying desperately to carve his way through the sea of bodies. The other leaders were at his side, all fighting towards the same goal – Natasha, Wanda, Pietro, Thor, Pepper, Tony, and behind them, all of their best warriors – the Howlies, Clinton, Loki, and many others. The chanting of the Promancorian priests was drowned out by the sounds of battle, and only the high flames of the burning sacrificial pyre could be seen.

Suddenly, a load roar rent the sky, echoing over the plain like a death knoll. It shook the very air in their lungs, and all turned to look for the source of the sound.

Like a nightmare come to life, something long slithered up into the air, far above the heads of the men, reaching into the sky like a long winding river. Black in colour, when it was fully extended, it split into ten long strands, each tipped with an arrow-head like shape, which slowly curved down in their direction.

Ten sets of ruby red eyes blinked open. Ten heads, attached to a body that seemed to be growing out of the ground, as large as a small hill, attached to two limbs as thick as tree trunks, each tipped with razor sharp claws. Opening each of its ten mouths, lined with row upon row of pointed teeth, the monster roared once more.

“WHAT IN THE NAME OF THE GODS IS THAT THING?” Tony shrieked, his spiked gauntlets thrown up in the air.

“What abomination have they summed?” Wanda asked, her mouth agape.

“Is that their god?” breathed Clint.

“You shouldn’t have spoken so soon,” Natasha said, glaring daggers at Thor, who swallowed nervously.

“How are we supposed to slay that thing?” Pietro cried.

“With anything and everything we’ve got!” Steve said.

Just then, Sigvardr bounded to Steve’s side, and he was shocked to find her eyes glowing white. Planting her feet into the soil, she threw back her head and unleashed a howl unlike anything Steve had ever heard. The high pitched note resounded over the battlefield with an unearthly volume; it was a long and drawn out cry.

There was a second of silence after it ended, and then-

An answering howl, even louder than Sigvardr’s own. The sound was as haunting as it was loud; it seemed to fill the very soul with its timbre, and seemed to come from the heavens themselves.

The sword hilt in Steve’s hand suddenly felt cold, and he lifted it to find the whole sword glowing with an eerie blue light. Experimentally, Steve slashed through the air, and tiny ice crystals formed in the wake of the blade.

Before he had time to comprehend what was happening, an eagle’s cry filled the space where the otherworldly wolf’s howl had been. Steve looked up to find a gigantic raven, the size of a horse’s head, gliding towards them. The bird had tremendous claws, and a golden beak. Where its two eyes should have been were nothing but feathers, and instead, a large, golden eye with a slitted pupil was mounted on its forehead. The great raptor flapped its wings to slow its descent, kicking up a torrent of dust as it landed right beside Natasha.

Opening its golden beak once more, it gave another shriek, one so loud that it shook the very trees behind them.

In her hand, Natasha’s longsword began to glow with a golden light.

She met Steve’s eyes.

As soon as the raven’s shriek subsided, the sounds of a crackling storm filled the space. Steve looked up once more to find a small thundercloud forming above their heads, dark and tall. It was followed by the sharp clap of thunder, and from the centre of the towering cloud, a bolt of lightening suddenly lanced towards them. In a flash, it was there and gone again, burned into their eyes, and in its wake stood Thor, his hammer raised, the weapon sparking with electricity.

The next moment, the cloud was gone, and the air was filled with the resonant sound of horns instead; it felt like an entire legion of them, shaking the earth and sky with the deep sound. Wanda gasped, and Steve looked over to find that her twin swords were wreathed in a fine red mist, as was Pietro’s lance.

After the chorus of horns subsided, a sharp metallic sound pierced the air, like a hammer striking an anvil. It rang out five times, washing over them like a tide. At the sound of the fifth strike, Pepper’s sword and Tony’s gauntlets began to glow red, like molten steel in the heart of a forge; the air around them sizzled from the heat, the essence of the sun god distilled into weapons.

“That’s what I’m talking about!” said Tony, his eyes alight with excitement.

“I did not speak too soon!” Thor said to Natasha, a triumphant smile splitting open his face. “The gods smile upon us this day! Let the histories recount the glorious victory, the valiant defeat of the Promancorian Emperor and its accursed, many-headed beast at the hands of the Children of the North!” He raised his hammer high. “For the gods!” he bellowed.

The answering war cry from the warriors set the world into motion once more.

The Promancorian soldiers fought with a zealous fervor, throwing themselves at the clans’ warriors like waves against a rocky cliffside. One soldier charged at Steve with a lance raised. Sidestepping the lunge, Steve countered with a slash from his blade.

The sword cut through the padding of leather armour, and from the place where it touched bare skin, ice crystals erupted. The soldier shrieked, and Steve watched as the man turned to solid ice in mere seconds. As Steve stood stunned, Sigvardr bounded forward, knocking into the frozen solider, knocking him to the ground. With the sound of crashing ice, the once breathing man shattered into icy shards.

Sigvardr’s sharp bark broke Steve from his awed stupor.

What power!

Quickly, he moved to catch up with the others. The monster was approaching them from behind Promancorian lines, its heads dancing wildly as he crawled and clawed its way forward.

“We must slay the abomination!” Wanda cried as she impaled an enemy with her swords; the soldier fell to his knees, and then disintegrated into a fine red mist which dissolved into thin air.

“Onward!” Tony shouted. He had his gauntlets held out in front of him, and from their palms, jets of fire sprang forth, burning everything before him into a crisp.

Together, they worked their way quickly until they found themselves at the feet of the beast. Rearing up, the monster roared, swiping its large, clawed hand at them.

Dodging and rolling, they were scattered.

And so began the deadly dance with the damned beast.

Steve dodged and wove between claws and sharp teeth, Sigvardr close at his side, as they both tried to come close enough to strike at the foul creature. With ten heads, two clawed arms, and a razor whip tail, it was a difficult task. Where one limb left an opening, another limb quickly filled the space, blocking his advancement.

Steve and Signvardr found themselves sparring with one of the ten mighty heads, its sharp teeth – some the length of an entire arm – snapped at them as they parried. The obsidian scales upon its face and neck glinted maliciously in the sunlight as the serpentine neck swayed back and forth; it proved to be an effective armour against all weapons except those which had been blessed by godly magic. No arrowhead or blade seemed to be able to pierce it, and no hammer able to break it, but when Steve caught a sliver of the neck with the tip of his blade, the scales frosted over and cracked. He tried to follow up with another blow, but the creature was smart, and dodged around his sword with surprising agility.

Rearing back, the head he was fighting coiled back, and Steve braced himself, ducking behind his shield. The strike sent him flying, his arm numb from the impact, and he fell on his back, gasping for the air that was knocked out of his lungs.

As swift as the wind, the head was looming over him, its red glowing eyes locked onto his prone body.

Just when the jaws were about to strike, a blast of fire came between them, and the attacking head reared back.

“Steve!” said Pepper as she jogged up beside him.

“Thanks for the backup,” Steve said, quickly getting to his feet. With weapons raised, they both faced the head together. “Any luck?”

“Pietro and Clint were able to injure of the heads, and they’re working with Wanda to take it down. The inside of the throat seems to be soft and unprotected; Clint got some arrows in there and it seemed to hurt.”

“A weakness! That’s good news. Do you have any projectiles?”

“No, unfortunately I don’t. We’ve called up some archers from the back lines, but we need to hold ground until they arrive.”

“Noted.”

The sound of crackling thunder came from the left, and Steve looked over to see Thor with his arm outstretched, his hammer clasped in his fist. A bolt of lightning shot out from the hammer, striking a group of oncoming soldiers. With a cry of agony, the men fell to the ground, their armour blackened.

“Do you think that counts as a projectile?” Steve asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Let’s find out.”

The head seemed to lose interest in fighting the three of them together, no doubt knowing its odds of winner were lessened, and retreated to a defensive position. Pepper, Steve, and Sigvardr were then free to take off in Thor’s direction, felling any and all foot soldiers who stood in their way. Thor was being forced back by the combined efforts of three heads when they arrived, just in time for Steve to slash at the eye of one head which was preoccupied with attempting to snap at Thor’s exposed flank.

His sword cut through the scales on its face and cut through its eye, blinding it as shards of ice formed across the length of the gash. Frost bloomed across the portion of the head that had been struck, and the monster emitted an ear splitting shriek as its neck reeled back.

Pepper, meanwhile, shot a tongue of flame from her sword, cutting off another attack by a different head.

“Good timing!” said Thor, his face slicked with sweat and blood. “It almost had me there.”

“Clint and Pietro found a weakness,” Pepper told him. “The inside of its mouth is unprotected when it opens its jaws to strike. If you can shoot a bolt of lightning in there, we might have a chance at taking one down.”

Thor juggled his hammer between his hands. “Then lets fry this beast! Its head would look mighty fine when stuffed and hung from the wall in our great hall.”

Sigvardr barked in agreement, and Thor smiled at her.

“Action time!” he said as they watched the three heads regroup. “You form the distraction, and I’ll shoot when I can.”

“Got it!” said Steve.

Working together, they tried to keep the three heads occupied. Initially, they started with each trying to catch the attention of one of the heads, but the monster was either too stupid or too smart, and quickly lost interest in chasing individual people around in circles. Instead, the heads worked in tandem, splitting them up with well timed attacks and maneuvering.

Suddenly, Steve found himself face to face with two heads, separated from Sigvardr, Pepper, and Thor.

Two mouths seemed to smile toothily at him as they began to dart forward, sharp teeth on the offensive.

Steve warded off one head with a swing of his sword, and deflected a bite from the other with his shield, but the moment it had been knocked aside, the first head was there, rearing with its jaws wide open.

“STEVEN!” he heard Thor shout from across the distance they had been separated, and Steve braced himself, holding his shield over his face to block the incoming teeth.

Just when he was sure he was done for, the sound of crackling thunder shot through the air, and something powerful struck his shield. Steve’s eyes jerked open, shocked to see a bolt of lightning bouncing off the polished surface of his round shield and directly into the open mouth of the attacking head.

The lightning struck with a sickening sizzle, and the head hovered barely above the ground for a moment in shock.

Without a second’s though, Steve lunged forward, plunging his sword into the beast’s forehead. The blade broke through the rigid black scales like a pane of glass, the sword becoming buried to the hilt into its brain. From the inside, the entire head frosted over, until it was encased in a heavy layer of ice.

Withdrawing his sword, Steve swung it high above his head before bringing it down onto the serpentine neck, and with the the sound of a glacier splitting in two, the whole thing broke off from the neck.

Panting, Steve dropped to his knees beside the severed head.

He looked over at the gaping neck, but was horrified to find the open flesh of the severed limb had started to bubble, the flesh bulging and protruding. Slowly, bubbled out and split into two, the mass of dripping red flesh began to take shape.

Two more heads. Albeit marginally smaller than the original, but it looked to be multiplying.

Thrown into a panic, Steve surged to his feet, swinging his knife at the regenerating flesh. It sliced cleanly into the meat, cutting off the bits that were forming. Terrified of creating more, he hacked at the fallen num until it was nothing but a pile of frozen bits, and then thrust his blade into the open wound. Ice crusted over the opening, freezing the flesh in place.

Steve waited a minute before withdrawing his sword, just to be sure that it wasn’t growing anything back.

“Such an abomination!” Pepper panted as she and Sigvardr finally caught up.

“We have to warn the others,” said Steve as he retrieved his blade. “The heads will reform and multiply if we don’t close the wound when it’s severed from the neck.”

“But now we know how to defeat it!” Thor kicked the frozen head with a boot. “We will be hailed as god slayers! The songs of our victory will be sung throughout the ages and echo for all time!” He raised his hammer into the air, and it sizzled with electricity. “Onward! One head down, nine to go!”

The three of them separated in order to spread the new information. Steve joined Natasha, and together took down another head, and a third soon followed with the aid of Wanda and the Howlies.

Thor, Tony, and Loki were the ones who felled the last head. With a dagger in one eyes and lightning shot up its throat, the last head crashed to the earth, the skull melted off the neck from molten lava that poured from Tony’s gauntlets.

With no heads remaining, the infernal monster’s legs gave out, and its grotesque, bloated body crashed to the ground. A beat of silence hovered in the air as the world seemed to hold its breath. Was it over? Was it done? Or would the beast find another way to rise up?

When nothing happened, all the clan warriors roared, a deafening victory cry that sent the remaining Promancorian soldiers running for their lives. Everyone began to celebrate, but Steve held back. With his sword and shield in hand, he walked around the beast, looking for the man who started it all.

Steve found the Promancorian Emperor trapped beneath the tail of the fallen beast, two men struggling to help him crawl out from where he was pinned to the ground. When he walked into sight, the man spat at him, cursing in his own language.

Without Natasha to translate, he didn’t know what was being said, but it didn’t matter. Steve quickly dispatched of the two soldiers who tried defending their leader, and with a swift swipe of his blade, separated the man’s head from his shoulders.

-8-

The Great Hall in Roophoek was filled with the laugher, music, and celebration. The ale and spirits were flowing as the whole clan rejoiced in the victory. Steve had joined in the revelries when the feasting had begun, but when the dancing and merriment had swept in, he silently slipped away, hidden by the darkness of the cool, mid autumn night.

Full of good food and drink, Steve felt warm, his head pleasantly fuzzy, and he strode into the Sanctuary of the Winter Lord with confidence. Kneeling before the alter, the painted bowl placed on the rug between his knees, Steve faced the carved statue with his hands raised.

“My Lord Buchanan,” he said, “I bring you the heads of our sworn enemy. May his defeat bring glory to your name.”

“You better not have gotten any blood on my things,” said a deep, familiar voice from the shadows.

Steve smiled. “That’s why I left it outside. The Emperor’s head is still wears its ridiculously decorated helm, and I couldn’t fit the head of the beast through these doors if I tried.”

A pair of arms wrapped around Steve’s chest from behind, and he felt a strong, solid presence at his back. “It seems you have thought of everything,” Lord Buchanan said with a chuckle.

“Did you want both of the beast heads? There was enough for each clan to receive two. I thought, if you could spare one, we could stuff it and hang it in the Great Hall. Thor’s definitely doing that with one of his, but I think Wanda is presenting both of hers at the alter of the Lords of Mind and Earth.”

“You may keep one,” Lord Buchanan said. “I only have need of one.”

Steve turned, coming face to face with the Winter Lord. He couldn’t see much in the darkness of the unlit room, but even in the low lighting, the deity’s silver eyes seemed to shine.

“You have done well, Steven. I-”

Steve cut him off by pressing their lips together, slipping his tongue into Lord Buchanan’s mouth in a searing kiss as he flung his arms around the god’s broad, bare shoulders. Pressing their bodies together, Steve’s heart began to race as he felt the firm muscles of Lord Buchanan’s body up close. Giving as good as he got, Lord Buchanan kissed back, one hand cupping the back of Steve’s head and the other wrapping around his middle. Steve could feel the rough scratch of Lord Buchanan’s beard as they kissed, his senses filled with the aroma of aged wine barrels and permafrost.

When he was short of breath and his mind began to spin, Steve broke away, to breathe.

“Always such an eager one, aren’t you?” Lord Buchanan said, pressing small kisses to the column of Steve’s throat.

“Only for you,” Steve panted. “You saved us all, my lord; we owe you our lives.”

Lord Buchanan nipped at Steve’s skin, his teeth scraping pleasantly against his neck. “I did no such thing. You were the one doing all the hard work, what with all the god slaying,” he replied.

“Without you, I would have been slain on the battlefield long ago, our people killed, or worse, sentenced to a life of enslavement.”

The Winter Lord’s fingers carded through Steve’s hair, brushing it aside, and Steve leaned into the touch. “You see yourself as just a simple man, nothing but a vessel through which divine power flows into the world. But you are wrong. You are not simply a channel or a tool; your conviction, your loyalty, and your unwavering dedication to justice shine like a beacon.”

Steve could feel the emotion welling inside him.

“None so virtuous has come before you, and none who follow will reach your height.”

“Lord Buchanan,” Steve said, struggling to speak past the lump in his throat.

“You have become very previous to me, dear one,” said Lord Buchanan.

“Please,” Steve said, his eyes falling closed as his face was showered with soft kisses. “Make love to me.”

“It would be a pleasure,” Lord Buchanan said, his hands moving to the hem of Steve’s shirt.

Clothing was swiftly removed, and not before long, Steve found himself on his hands and knees, naked as the day he was born, with three of Lord Buchanan’s fingers spreading him open. Slicked with oil, Lord Buchanan worked him open slowly, whispering words of encouragement and praise. Steve’s skin felt hot, burning from arousal as he struggled to hold himself up with shaking limbs. Every slow thrust deeper made him gasp, filling him with desire and a hunger for more. With his other hand, Lord Buchanan played with his sac, rolling his balls between his fingers, and Steve whined high in his throat.

Lord Buchanan took his time; Steve knew from the last time that he enjoyed taking it slow, drawing out Steve’s pleasure for as long as he could, until Steve felt like every nerve in his body had been strung taught, enflamed and rubbed raw.

When his fingers brushed the spot inside him, Steve cried out, his thick, throbbing cock jumping from the stimulation.

“I wonder,” Lord Buchanan said, “if you might find your release from only this.”

He touched the spot once more, and Steve whimpered against the wave of pleasure that swamped his body. His arms gave out, and he fell forward until his forehead was pressed into the soft rug beneath him, his ass sticking straight up into the air.

“Come now, dear one,” Lord Buchanan cooed softly. “The edge is near; I can feel it.”

Pressing his fingers against the spot, Steve’s vision blurred, his muscles flexing involuntarily as he began to lose control. Sticky, sweet liquid dripped from the engorged head of his cock, which twitched and jumped with every stroke of fingers inside him.

It was maddening, how Lord Buchanan teased him so slowly, almost painfully, and as much as Steve felt like he was suffocating in it, he loved every moment. This teasing battle between pleasure and release was filled with tension, bringing alive every drop of blood in his body. It felt absolutely heavenly, suspended in a place where there was nothing but pleasure and the promise of more.

Steve begged for more, faster, harder, his hips rocking back to try to get more pressure, more fingers, more anything, but one hand on his hip stopped him. The build up was agonizingly slow, but with every brush of the fingers, he moved higher and higher, until there was no holding back.

The orgasm swept through Steve like a fire through kindling, and he cried out with pleasure as he released his seed into the waiting bowl below. It was an intense release, obliterating everything but pleasure from his senses as his body contracted, quivering from the sheer bliss that consumed him.

When it was over, he was panting, drenched in a layer of sweat. Lord Buchanan’s fingers withdrew, and Steve protested from the absence.

“Hush now, don’t fret dear one, you will be full again soon.”

The slick sound of oil reached his ears, and then the blunt head of Lord Buchanan’s cock pressed up against his entrance. Steve moaned; he felt wrung out, yet the hunger inside him was still lurking, craving the stretch and the immense satisfaction of being filled. With a press of his hips, Lord Buchanan entered him.

Steve sighed. There was no feeling in the world like this feeling, and Steve would do almost anything for it. The wet slide of skin accompanied the feeling of Lord Buchanan sinking deeper into him, ever so slowly, bit by bit; halfway in and Steve found himself struggling to breath. His guts felt like they were being pushed up into his lungs, making it harder to breathe. But it didn’t stop, and the press continued at a snails pace. Steve was panting and half hard again by the time Lord Buchanan was fully sheathed.

“Come here,” Lord Buchanan said softly, a hand on Steve’s shoulders.

It took every ounce of energy left within him to push himself off the rug. Lord Buchanan pull him up, wrapping his arms around Steve’s body to press them together, Steve’s back flush with Lord Buchanan’s chest.

“There we are, beloved,” Lord Buchanan said, his soft voice like velvet in Steve’s ear.

“I am yours,” Steve murmured.

A press of lips to his own was the answer.

Lord Buchanan began to move, drawing back halfway before sliding back in. Steve gasped, his mouth agape and his head thrown back. He was still tender from the orgasm, and the stimulation was almost too much for him to handle.

As he had before, Lord Buchanan started with an excruciatingly slow pace. The glide of the rock hard cock deep inside him was unparalleled, and to Steve’s scrambled brain, it was the only thing he could register. The friction against his bundle of nerves was constant, rubbing him on both the entry and the exit, and it stirred up a storm within him.

Gradually, Lord Buchanan’s movements became faster, until he was pounding into Steve with abandon. His body was being pushed to the limits, and Steve wanted nothing more than to see just how far the pleasure could take him. His voice was hoarse from the moans, and he could feel his channel clenching with the anticipation as the arousal welled up inside him, bringing him closer and closer to his second orgasm of the night.

“I’m close,” Lord Buchanan panted, the sweat between them making it easy for his arms to slide across Steve’s chest and stomach, pinching and teasing at his sensitive spots.

“Fill me up, my lord,” Steve whispered, his eyes squeezed tight.

Lord Buchanan growled possessively, his thrusts erratic as he began to spill his seed; Steve could feel it deep inside him, filling him up.

Moaning, Steve grabbed one of Lord Buchanan’s hands, placing it on his cock. Immediately, the large hand gripped his erection, jerking him with a frantic pace as he continued to ride out his orgasm. It did not take long before Steve was cresting the peak for the second time, crying out as his cock throbbed with every spurt of seed.

Spent, the both collapsed onto the bearskin rug, panting and sticky with sweat and seed. Lord Buchanan was still hard, buried deep inside him, but Steve loved being filled that way. Joined to one another, they lapsed into silence.

Lacing their fingers together, Steve let his mind wander as he waited for his breathing and heartbeat to slow. A thought occurred to him, and suddenly Steve was unsure of himself.

“My lord,” Steve said, unwilling to move from this position, and afraid of what he might see if he were to look into Lord Buchanan’s eyes. “Now that the war is over… there’s no need for me to give a tribute of virility,” he said. “Does that mean… I will never see you again?”

Lord Buchanan’s fingers tightened their grip on Steve’s. “No, dear one. There are many occasions which may require ritual tribute, but nothing prevents me from appearing before without it.”

“Really?”

“It is so. You do not have wait until you have need of my powers to come to me. If you kneel before the alter and call my name, I will answer.”

Steve clutched Lord Buchanan’s hands to his chest, the strong, muscled arms surrounding him with comfort. “I would like to see you often,” Steve confessed.

“And I would be glad for it.”

“Truly?”

“Yes.” Lord Buchanan pressed a kiss to his bare shoulder. “You are my chosen champion, and nothing shall hold us apart. Not now, not ever.”

“For all of eternity?”

“I promise.”

Steve sighed and shifted, his heart full to the brim; the movement nudged the cock still buried inside him. “Oh!” Steve gasped.

“Would you care for more this night?” Lord Buchanan asked.

“Yes! Please. I wish to make love to you until I lose consciousness.”

Lord Buchanan chuckled. “Very well, dear one. I shall endeavor to deliver the utmost pleasure,” he said, pulling Steve close.

**Author's Note:**

> Spotify Playlist banner:


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